The Canadian artillery evidently received a message to support, and
down to our right the crash of our field guns, and their rhythmical
red flashes squirting from the hedgerows, focussed our attention and
added to the din.
Up the road from St. Julien came a small party of Zouaves with their
baggy trousers and red Fez caps. We stepped out to speak to them, and
found that they belonged to the French Red Cross. They had been driven
out of their dressing station by the poisonous gas, and complained
bitterly of the effect of it on their lungs.
Shortly afterwards the first wounded Canadian appeared--a
Highlander,--sitting on a little cart drawn by a donkey which was led
by a peasant. His face and head were swathed in white bandages, and he
looked as proud as a peacock.
Soon after, another Canadian Highlander came trudging up the road,
with rifle on shoulder and face black with powder. He stated that his
platoon had been gassed, and that the Germans had got in behind them
about a mile away, in such a manner that they had been forced to fight
them on front and rear. Finally the order had been passed, "Every man
for himself," and he had managed to get out; he was now on his way
back to report to headquarters.
Then came a sight that we could scarcely credit. Across the fields
coming towards us, we saw men running, dropping flat on their faces,
getting up and running again, dodging into disused trenches, and
keeping every possible bit of shelter between themselves and the enemy
while they ran.
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