1914. To War With A Lance.

"'Remount your horses', was the order. There were twenty of us. Then we saw the tips of lances coming round the bend in the lane. It was a German cavalryman, an advance patrol. He faced us then pulled his horse on to its haunches and turned, then all was quiet again. The Squadron Leader put his fingers to his mouth. Suddenly the lane widened and on a ploughed field was lined up a squadron of German cavalry with the skull and crossbones shining on their short busbies. The Squadron Leader shouted 'this is it!' drew his sword and twirled it around his head. I hadn't the strength to pull my sword out of its scabbard, so I fixed my lance which was on my arm and fixed it level with Queenie's head.

"Not too soon. A German was making straight for me. I pulled Queenie aside as he came, and the lance went straight through him. I hadn't the strength to twist the lance and let the air into his body to withdraw the lance. The Squadron Leader galloping by shouted 'pull the strap off your arm and leave the bastard with the lance in him!' Queenie was galloping along like a mad thing. I pulled on the bit but it had no effect.

"Somehow the Germans had gone. I pulled Queenie up and dismounted. She was covered with blood and white lather and I was covered with it, too. Queenie had a lump torn out of her shoulder and I had a finger hanging loose. I looked into her brown eyes. I was afraid to stroke her ears, which I used to do. I looked at her and she seemed to say, 'My God, what have you done to me?' She was trembling like a leaf and so was I. I got hold of her rein and led Queenie through the dead and dying. Some tried to grab my legs and some were lying under their horses.

"We got to the lane where what was left of the lads had made for. My mate Jack wouldn't make it; I saw his head cut off. We went to do what we could for the Germans. We brought two back to the lane badly wounded and propped them up against the grass verge. One sank to the ground and he was calling out to me. He couldn't speak English and he pointed to his jacket where he was wounded. I pushed my hand through the sticky mess and pulled out his pay-book. There were photos inside and he was gesticulating for me to look at them. It was his wife and children on holiday. Then he pointed to his other pocket. I pulled out an Iron Cross with the black ribbon. He wanted me to have it but I didn't want it. I felt so sick I wanted to die with him. He pointed to his chest and he pulled up a gold cross. He wanted me to hold it up, then he smiled and rolled over dead. My God, the whole world had gone mad. And just because some prince had been shot in some Balkan state."

By a miracle and despite three wounds, Jack Laiste survived into the 1980s when he penned this account 'because none of the things that have been written or broadcast are anything like what the lads have been through'.

Interview from November 1998