Part 27

No tribute is too great to pay to the memory of the late Captain Parslow, who died like the gallant seaman he was, giving his life in an endeavour to save his ship and the lives of those under his command.

His son, the second officer, for the pluck and courage he displayed in remaining at the wheel during the firing, has been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. The chief engineer received the same decoration, and I myself was the recipient of a handsome gold watch, suitably inscribed, "From the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty," as was likewise the second engineer and the senior Marconi operator.

The conduct of both the third officer and the junior Marconi operator deserves great praise, for they displayed splendid courage and coolness in carrying out their duties during the attack.

Lloyd's showed their appreciation of our efforts by presenting a substantial cheque, expressing at the same time their sincere regret for the loss of the heroic Captain Parslow.

The crew of the submarine, presumably, duly received Iron Crosses for their glorious day's work.

MY WORST EXPERIENCE IN MESOPOTAMIA

_Told by a Man Who Stopped a Bullet_

The writer of this vivid narrative, a British soldier, was wounded in Mesopotamia during an unsuccessful attempt to relieve Kut-el-Amara, shortly before its fall. Recorded in _Current History_.

I slipped my left hand into my tunic and was surprised to feel the hot blood pouring out. Then it dawned on me that I had been hit, and pretty badly, too. My equipment was hurting me, so I took it off.

I felt very dizzy, and decided to try and get back as far as I could. I stood up, a very unwise thing to do, considering that I was about 150 yards from the Turkish trench and must have made an easy mark, but I was not hit again immediately. My legs gave way and I collapsed and lay flat for a time. I thought if I was not to bleed to death I must make an effort to put my field bandage in place. So with difficulty I pulled it from my tunic pocket. The outer covering came off easily, and I took out one of the packets, but could see no way to slit it open. Finally I gripped the edge of the packet in my teeth and tore at it with both hands till it opened. I put the pad on the wound, as near as I could, but had no means of keeping it there, so I staggered to my feet and ran on, keeping the pad in place with my left hand. I believe I covered another fifty yards when I dropped again and lay in a kind of stupor.

I was aroused by the almost continuous "krock" of bursting shrapnel. Shells were dropping right and left, and the air was full of moaning and screaming as the bullets flew by. I managed to get on my feet again, although the effort made the blood spurt out anew. The sodden pad had slipped down and a burning pain in the pit of my stomach caused me to double up in agony and slide onto my knees. I started crawling painfully along until I came to a small mound which would at least afford "head over." I crept behind it and lay in the only position I could, on my left side.

I passed my hand over myself to feel for a wound, but could not find one. The bullet had entered the small of my back and lodged under my breast bone. Gradually the more intense pain passed away, leaving a not unpleasant sense of numbness over all my body.

The persistent calling of a man in pain brought me back to consciousness. The pitiless sun was blazing high in the heavens, and I felt hot and dry. Somebody was shouting "Fetch the stretcher-bearers, you fools: are you going to leave me here?" At first I felt very sorry for him, but soon wished he would stop, for I had a shocking headache. I judged it to be about midday, and thought that in another six hours I had a good chance of being brought in.

I was horrified to see that the water of the Suwaicha Marsh, which was on our right flank, had risen considerably, and I feared for any of our wounded who were further out on the right and unable to crawl away from the menace. The man who was shouting stopped, and everything was strangely calm and peaceful. I felt very happy and contented then, for as long as I kept quite still the pain was very dull, so I began singing and mumbling away in a quiet voice:

"Where my caravan has rested Flowers I'll strew there on the grass."

I sang again and again, accompanied by a strange roaring in my chest. My caravan, I thought, had rested in some very unusual places, but none so unusual as this. And what was the use of talking about the grass in the desert of Mesopotamia, where there is nothing but the yellow earth, the blue sky, the hot sun, and dirty water?

There was a water bottle, equipment, and rifle lying close to my head, and I have a vague remembrance of a Sikh lying beside me for a time and then jumping up and running back. I slowly put my right arm up, caught the sling, and dragged the bottle nearer. I pulled the cork out somehow, and propped the bottle against my face, with the neck to my lips, but was much upset to find I had not the strength to lift it up. Tears rolled down my cheeks after I had made two or three attempts, for I was very thirsty. I sang no more, as my throat was harsh and lumpy. So I lay staring at the yellow and blue till I lost consciousness once more.

This time I was roused by our own guns, and the sound was most comforting. "Giving 'em hell," I thought gleefully. They bombarded for about an hour, and then I slipped back into unconsciousness. It was getting dark when I came to again. A man was standing close to me, staring round the field. Somebody had put my sun helmet on my head. He came over to me. "Are the stretcher-bearers coming?" I asked, and he told me I was the next to be moved. It was not long before the bearers came, and they put the stretcher behind me. It was painful work getting on the stretcher, as I could not bear to have my body touched anywhere. However, it was managed at last, and I lay on my left side.

I suppose they went as gently as they could, but every step racked my body so much that I was nearly mad with pain. I cannot remember how far it was to the dressing station, but I remember passing through the artillery lines, where the guns had started again. I was put on a table, still on the stretcher, and was pleased to see our battalion doctor. "Well, laddie," he said, "how are you?" I replied that I was all right, but thought it "a bit thick" having to lie out there all day. Then he started cutting my clothes up, jersey and shirt as well. The dressing was by no means painful, but they left my hand untouched. I asked for something to drink, but the doctor said they would give me all I wanted at the field hospital.

Then began the worst experience I have ever been through. I was taken to a native springless mule cart, with a few sacks and blankets thrown in the bottom, and helped off the stretcher. The slightest movement caused great pain, but when the cart started bumping off I was in a positive inferno. I will not dwell on that four-mile journey from the marsh to the riverside; suffice it to say that what little breath I could summon was used in praying the driver to stop and leave me on the ground.

We came to the field hospital at last. The natives pushed a stretcher into the cart beside me, and one intelligent fellow nimbly jumped up and stood on my smashed hand. That was the last straw. I cursed him. When I stopped for want of breath they attempted to lift me on to the stretcher, but I begged them to stop. I tried to get on by myself, but could only manage to get my knees on and could not lift my body. The natives were chattering round the cart, so I started shouting "English, English. Fetch English," and at last a "Jock" came up to see what was wrong. I begged him to put his hand under my shoulder and help me on the stretcher, and in a moment I was lying on my stomach--not very comfortable on account of my laboured breathing, but it was a rest for my left side. When my hand had been cleaned and dressed I was put on a mattress in a bell tent, where I tossed about in a high fever.

In the morning I was put in a paddle-boat, and I slept till it started in the afternoon. We were taken ashore at Orah that night, and there received better attention. I was placed on the operating table and the bullet located and removed.

I will not describe my stay at Orah or the trip down the Tigris in the paddle-boat to Bussorah. My hand was a fearful size and very painful. When the ship was moored in front of Bussorah Hospital I was very weak. Two orderlies helped me on to the stretcher, and I was carried down the gangway to the entrance of the hospital. A Major took particulars and consigned me to a veranda ward on the second floor. And so I was placed in one of the whitest, cleanest, and most comfortable beds in the world.

SPIRIT OF YOUNG AMERICA--HOW WE WENT "OVER THE TOP"

_Experiences of a New York Boy with the Canadians_

_Told by (name withheld), Wounded in France_

This is a letter from an American boy at the front. It symbolizes the spirit of young America. In his frank, simple, human way, he tells with outbursts of quaint humor how he went "over the top," faced death, was wounded, and longs to get back into the fight. It is but one of the tens of thousands of private letters that are reaching friends in America every time a ship comes in from Europe.

I--"IN WAY OF FRITZ'S SHELLS"

1st Canadian Hospital, France, August 27, 1917.

Well, at last old man, I am writing to you. I am sorry I have not answered your last letter sooner. I have no good excuse to offer, so I guess I'll still cling to the old thread-bare one of "too busy." I guess my dear Mary will have told you that I am in hospital recovering from a little wound, the penalty of getting in the way of one of Fritz's shells. I am glad to say that I am going along nicely and hope to be about again very soon. I got hit just back of the knee, over the hamstring tendon, "whatever that is." I guess I ought to be thankful it was no worse. In a week or so I shall be none the worse for the experience. Believe me, it was some experience. You know--one of those times when you hear invisible bands playing "Home Sweet Home" and "He's Gone Where They Don't Play Billiards."

I guess, dear George, you would like a little of the news of how I am passing the weary months away. Well, at times it's not so bad. We have our little bit of fun, for you know I'm one of those guys that makes the best of it. We get many a laugh. We have got the knack of being easily amused. We often get a smile out of things at which if it wasn't for the surroundings we should feel like shuddering.

I cannot tell you much on account of the censor. But I can tell you a little of the experience I had last Wednesday week, the 15th, the time we had the pleasure (?) of going "over the top" and getting in close touch with Fritz. We had been expecting it to come off for a long time and I think the period of waiting was the worst part of the whole affair. We had only been out of the line a couple of days and such awful days they were; the time we had been in, it was up to our knees in mud. Well, anyway, the order came along for us to go back and make an attempt to pull the job off. The day before they tried to make things as pleasant as possible. We had a band concert almost all day long, and then as soon as it got dark we started forward to take up our position to wait for the big show at daybreak.

Our first trouble was gas. We had our masks on in about two seconds. I guess you have seen pictures of these masks. But believe me, when you get a bunch of men moving cautiously across country they're enough to scare a fellow out of a month's growth. Eventually we got there. But the position we were to take up was being peppered with Fritz's iron rations. So we were told to move to another place and dig ourselves in. Again he located us and made it unhealthy, so we had to move again. We were in a great mood then, for we had worked like niggers and had just got comfortable when the order came to move. We contented ourselves that we would square matters in the morning.

At a quarter of four (daybreak) we settled down to wait for the signal for the big show to start. There certainly was some excitement in the air. Almost as much as when in a game of pool the fifteen ball's over the hole and it's your shot next. Through some cause or other matters we were delayed twenty-five minutes--the longest minutes I have ever lived. Each minute seemed like an hour. Long after the war is all over and forgotten, I think I shall remember that long, weary wait.

II--"WHAT I SAW WHEN I WENT 'OVER'"

At last, we got the signal and the barrage and bombardment started. I have read of bombardments and I have seen them described pretty vividly, but no description or imagination could make anyone realize what they are really like. Every thing we had, opened up at the same second--silent batteries that had been there for weeks without firing a shot, just waiting for this event to be pulled off. It seemed as if the very earth was swaying. But don't think we had it all our own way. For Fritz had quite a number of iron foundries he wanted to get rid of, and he started up almost as soon as we did.

We found out afterwards, that they knew we were "going over." In fact, their officers had been officially warned to be prepared for an attack at 4 A.M. So I guess they had their anxious wait as well as we. Fritz's fireworks' display was simply wonderful. Rockets and flare-lights of every color and description went up, but I didn't stop to admire it. I was too busy and scarcely in the mood to admire anything. Everything had to be done by signals. The noise was so deafening that even if you shouted at the top of your voice you couldn't be heard.

The first wave went over at 4:25 A.M. Everything possible in what they call modern warfare was used--liquid fire, oil, tanks and a dozen different things to get Fritz's wind up. And believe me, we did get it up! For thirty minutes after we went "over" we had them on the run. All I am sorry about is that we could not keep them going _until they reached Berlin_.

Believe me, old man, it was some fight! Some of the things I saw myself, I would not have believed if I hadn't seen them with my own eyes. Some of the fellows just went crazy. One fellow was fighting away with only half a rifle in his hand, and yet there was dozens of good ones lying around if he had only taken a moment to pick one up. Others were throwing bombs just like bricks. You know the bombs we use out here mostly are the kind we saw at that New York Red Cross bazaar--perhaps you remember them. Before they explode you have to pull the safety pin out, and then they burst four seconds later. Well, some of the guys didn't pull the pins out; they just used them like bricks. Gee, it put me in mind of a good old Summer Lane scrap, but anyhow it was enough to get them on the hustle.

There were many other little incidents, some that I saw myself, and others that I heard coming down on the hospital train. One of our fellows took two prisoners only armed with a lighted candle. This happened after we had been occupying Fritz's front line several hours. Leaving his rifle at the top, he went down into one of Fritz's saps "looking for souvenirs, I guess." Well, he lit his candle and there in the corner were two great hulking fellows. I guess they were more scared than he was. Up went their hands with the same old cry: "Not me, Mister, Mercy, Kamerad." We had a laugh afterwards for the guy who brought them up, looked as if he had been scared stiff. I'll bet he never goes down a strange sap again unarmed. Later on they caught another five in one of the other saps.

There were dozens of little incidents like this. So far so good--but the worst had yet to come. We had captured three villages and the famous hill. When I say there had been five previous attempts to get the hill alone, for he had occupied it for two and a half years, you will see that it was some accomplishment. They put over ten counter-attacks. I didn't count them. I was too interested and busy with other things to bother about counting anything. They came over in the old massed formation style. It seems a crazy style to me, for their losses must have been enormous. Every time they came over they got smashed, and were glad to beat it back, or at least as many of them as were able to. That continued practically all day.

III--ON AN ADVANCE POST

As soon as it was dark, I was detailed along with a bunch of other fellows to go out as reinforcements to our left flank. My friend Jones, another fellow and I, were put on an advanced bombing post. Every once in a while they would attempt to come over on us. It kept us pretty busy, and also kept us from getting sleepy.

In the early morning one of Fritz's planes came flying over us. One of our fellows couldn't resist the temptation of drawing a bead on him, although it's against all orders for us to fire on aircraft. The chances of hitting him are about a thousand to one. Well, the "son of a gun" made a dive and swooped over us with his machine gun. I don't think he got anybody, but he came so low that some of our guns got him. He dropped like a stone. I was almost sorry to see it, for I am still a sport and that guy certainly had got grit.

Well, these little events kept happening all day long. Then at four o'clock in the afternoon my friend Jones got hit. It was during one of his attacks--he got inquisitive, took a peek over the parapet, and got it in the cheek. Two hours later I got hit--this was the second time I had been hit. The first was so slight I didn't leave the line, but this time I had just had about as much as I cared for. So I got first aid and waited until things had quieted down a little, and then made my way to a dugout to wait until it got dark.

About nine o'clock, I started to beat it for the dressing station. But believe me, old man, it was easier said than done, for we had advanced over a mile over No Man's Land and I had to go all over that way again. There were three of us that started. The other two were just slightly wounded--one in the shoulder and the other in the wrist. But poor me, having it in the knee, was worst of the bunch. I couldn't move fast, it had stiffened me so.

Well, we had our little adventures going across. Once I got entangled in the barbed wire. And then when we saw several fellows ahead of us--we just dropped in a shell hole, and waited for them to move off. After a wait of about fifteen minutes, they didn't move. The fellow with the hit in the shoulder crawled forward to find out who they were. He was gone so long we were just making up our minds to make a wide circuit of them, "for none of us were armed"--we had thrown everything away so we could move quicker. Just as we had given him up he came back with the news it was one of our own working parties fixing wires. The reason he had been so long was because he had been waiting to catch some of the conversation to see whether it was English or not.

Away we started again. We were nearing our old front line when Fritz caught us with one of his flare-lights. Of course the next minute it was Whiss-siss-siss-pop-pop-pop! They had turned a machine gun on us. Then came another wait in a shell hole. Eventually I reached the dressing station. I had my leg dressed and a few bits of sticking plaster put on various parts of my body. I was put on a motor ambulance and the next morning woke up in a hospital clearing station to find my old friend Jones sitting up in a bed opposite me.

Well, we had a good laugh for we are like the Siamese twins. Wherever one is the other is not far off--at least it has been that way since coming to France. And the objects we looked, he with a face as big as two, and me with my clothing all muddy and torn and various other changes. We'd have made a good picture entitled, "After the Fight." Later on we were taken on a hospital train to this place, but I shall be glad when I can get about again. I feel more lonesome here than I ever have in all my life. It's the weariness of lying here with nothing to do that gets my "goat." Nevertheless it's great to be human again and among civilization again. The first few days I appreciated it all right, for I did not have a wink of sleep from the Monday night and scarcely anything to eat or drink.

Now don't forget, old man, to drop me a line and let me know how everything is in dear old New York. So now good-bye for the present, hoping you WILL remember me to all old friends.

Your old friend,

LABAN.