Good Old Potts
One of the Men the British Took to Gallipoli to Show Their Grit
Private Frederick Potts did a V. C. bit at Gallipoli. An attack was being made on a very strongly fortified Turkish position, a sector stretching from Hill 70 to Hill 112. Potts was in the advance on Hill 70. It was a terrible day. The heat was intense. The country was uncommonly difficult, largely sand and scrub, the scrub being so parched that it took fire in many places from the shell fire, and in crossing these patches some of the men who fell wounded were burned to death. Potts’ section was ascending Hill 70 in short spurts, making occasional halts. After taking shelter in a little gulley, it was ordered to charge. Potts rushed forward with his comrades; but he had not gone more than twenty yards when he was shot down, a bullet having entered the left thigh. Potts was then about a quarter of a mile from the top of the hill. He was lucky enough to be lying in a little thicket formed of the scrub, and this gave him some sort of shelter and hid him from view. Not long after he fell there crawled towards him a fellow-townsman, who was badly wounded. Potts recognized him.
“Is that you, Andrews?” he said.
“Yes,” came the feeble answer.
“I’m jolly pleased you’ve come,” said Potts.
Then Andrews dragged himself as close as he could get—he had been shot through the groin—and the two lay perfectly still for some minutes fully expecting that the Turks would find and kill them.
Very soon a third trooper who had been wounded made his way to the thicket. With great difficulty, room was found for him. Andrews had hardly moved his position so that the newcomer could be accommodated when a bullet mortally wounded the stranger. He cried piteously for water, but there was not a drop to be had, and the three wounded soldiers endured the agonies of thirst that whole afternoon of intense heat. The night came bitterly cold, increasing the suffering of the three. Moreover, a full moon made the night as clear as day, and every movement in the thicket was followed by a bullet from the Turks. A bullet grazed Potts’ left ear as he lay flat on the ground, face down. The morning brought death to the stranger. He had kept on murmuring wearily, “Water! Water!”
The whole of the next day the two survivors lay hidden in the hot scrub, not daring to move, tortured by thirst, suffering from their wounds, and trying to get relief by sucking bits of stalks which they managed to pick from the shrubs. That night, as the only hope of salvation was to get away, they began to crawl off, Potts leading and Andrews following. They lay perfectly flat, and literally wriggled. From six at night—when darkness fell—till three in the morning they dragged themselves, dust-choked, a distance of about three hundred yards—as Potts calculated afterwards, thirty-three yards an hour. A bit of burnt scrub near at hand afforded slight protection; this was taken, and the troopers tried to sleep, but the extreme cold made rest impossible. When daylight came, some water was obtainable, but only by crawling to men who had been killed and whose bottles could be reached. This dreadful day passed, Potts doing his best to stanch his comrade’s bleeding wounds. The third night on the hill came.