rgettable way on my mind. In the remains
of a wrecked dug-out or emplacement a signaller sat, calmly
transmitting messages to Battalion Headquarters. A few bombers were
walking along the continuation of the front line. I could distinguish
the red grenades on their arms through the smoke. There were more of
them at the head of the communication trench. Shells were coming over
and blowing up round about.

I asked one of the bombers to see what was wrong with my hip. He
started to get out my iodine tube and field dressing. The iodine tube
was smashed. I remembered that I had a second one, and we managed to
get that out after some time. Shells were coming over so incessantly
and close that the bomber advised that we should walk farther down the
trench before commencing operations. This done, he opened my breeches
and disclosed a small hole in the front of the left hip. It was
bleeding fairly freely. He poured in the iodine, and put the bandage
round in the best manner possible. We set off down the communication
trench again, in company with several bombers, I holding the bandage
to my wound. We scrambled up mounds and jumped over craters (rather a
painful performance for one wounded in the leg); we halted at times in
almost open places, when machine-gun bullets swept unpleasantly near,
and one felt the wind of shells as they passed just over, blowing up a
few yards away. In my last stages across No Man's Land my chief
thought had been, "I must get home now for the sake of my people."
Now, for I still remember it distinctly, my thought was, "Will my
name appear in the casualty list under the head of 'Killed' or
'Wounded'?" and I summoned up a mental picture of the two alternatives
in black type.

After many escapes we reached the Reserve Line, where a military
policeman stood at the head of Woman Street. He held up the men in
front of me and directed them to different places. Some one told him
that a wounded officer was following. This was, perhaps, as well, for
I was an indistinguishable mass of filth and gore. My helmet was
covered with mud, my tunic was cut about with shrapnel and bullets and
saturated with blood; my breeches had changed from a khaki to a purple
hue; my puttees were in tatters; my boots looked like a pair of very
muddy clogs.

The military policeman consigned me to the care of some excellent
fellow, of what regiment I cannot remember. After walking, or rather
stumbling, a short way down Woman Street,