There are very few people around who remember the First World War. In the run up to Remembrance Day, the Guardian tracked down three and interviewed them.
We got as far as their second line and four Germans stood up. They didn’t get up to run away, they got up to fight. One of them came running towards me. He couldn’t have had any ammunition or he would have shot me, but he came towards me with his bayonet pointing at my chest. I fired and hit him in the shoulder. He dropped his rifle, but still came stumbling on. I can only suppose that he wanted to kick our Lewis gun into the mud, which would have made it useless. I had three live rounds left in my revolver and could have killed him with the first. What should I do? I had seconds to make my mind up. I gave him his life. I didn’t kill him. I shot him above the ankle and above the knee and brought him down. I knew he would be picked up, passed back to a PoW camp, and at the end of the war he would rejoin his family.
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