Blood and Thunder by Alexandra J Churchill

Douglas, Francis Grenfell ran headlong into the 119th Battery of the Royal Field Artillery. They were in a terrible state. Outnumbered three to one, they had been engaged in a duel with German gunners and the results were telling. All about the guns lay the pulverised remains of more than a quarter of the men. Now, ordered to disengage, their Commanding Officer Major Alexander did not have enough men to get his guns out of harm’s way. While they were discoursing on this predicament Francis fell victim to yet more shrapnel.
    â€˜It felt as if a whip had hit me,’ he wrote afterwards. Pain shot through his hand and his leg. One of A Squadron’s officers, a young OE named ‘Bunny’ Taylor-Whitehead, was on hand and got to work with a handkerchief to try to stem the blood spurting from the wound. Out came a copy of the Field Service Regulations. They leafed through the pages trying to find out how to apply a tourniquet. ‘Of course we found out how to stop blood in every other part of one’s body except one’s hand.’ Eventually they got it together but by then things had begun to spin a little for Francis. He suddenly remembered that in the wallets of the horse he had inherited he had seen a flask of brandy, so he promptly emptied it. ‘I now felt like Jack Johnson instead of an old cripple.’
    As well as being mauled by three batteries of German artillery, the 119th and their cavalry helpers were also under a sustained and intense tirade from machine guns and rifles, and Francis’ first task, having volunteered to help, was to find a suitable place for them to extricate their guns to. Leaving everybody else under the embankment he mounted his borrowed horse and got on his way, riding out through the silent British guns alone, as the German’s continued to shell with enthusiasm. He made it to safety, found a safe place to aim for and then had to ride back. It might have been the brandy talking but he was determined to retain his dignity in front of the troops. ‘It was necessary to go back through the inferno as slowly as possible, so as to pretend to the men that there was no danger and that the shells were more noisy than effective.’
    Having informed Major Alexander that he had found a way out, Francis was told that the draught horses were gone. The only way to save the guns was to drag them out of the way by hand. Minus a decent amount of blood, ever so slightly influenced by alcohol and having just survived a game of chicken with the German artillery, Francis was full of confidence. Ordering his crowd to dismount in front of their horses he gave a rehashed version of the colonel’s speech at Tidworth and asked for volunteers to help manoeuvre the guns to safety. Hands shot up, including Bunny, Lennie and Douglas. In all eleven officers and a host of men offered their hands. Francis glowed with pride. ‘Every single man and officer declared they were ready to go to what looked like certain destruction.’
    Then they got to work. One by one they ran out into the storm of metal and started attempting to drag tons of heavy machinery out of enemy range. Slowly the guns had to be turned in the right direction and then the hauling began. In direct enemy range, one gun had to be dragged over the body of its fallen gunners. In all, Francis thought that they had managed to accomplish the task with the loss of only three or four men, although they had to return more than once and the enemy reached within 500 yards before the last gun was dragged to safety. He reflected on the actions of his men proudly. ‘It is on occasions like this that good discipline tells. The men were so wonderful and steady that words fail me.’
    Francis held on, light headed until Lucas arrived and assumed command, and then he began to collapse. His friend was kind yet firm in talking him into the idea of getting into an ambulance. Francis’ fingers were badly cut up and a