The War Stories of Private Thomas Atkins

THE WAR
STORIES
OF PRIVATE
THOMAS ATKINS

“Are we downhearted?” “No-o-o!”

The War Cry of Private Atkins.

It’s a long way to Tipperary

It’s a long way to go,

It’s a long way to Tipperary,

To the sweetest girl I know!

Good-bye, Piccadilly!

Farewell, Leicester Square!

It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,

But my heart’s right there.

The Marching Song of Private Atkins.

PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY CHRONICLE
BY GEORGE NEWNES LIMITED OF
SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, LONDON

PRINTED AT
THE BALLANTYNE PRESS
LONDON

[CONTENTS]

Now all the youth of England are on fire,

And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;

Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought

Reigns solely in the breast of every man.

William Shakespeare.

[“BLOW! BUGLES, BLOW!”]

Boot, saddle, to horse, away!

Rescue my castle before the hot day

Brightens to blue from its silvery grey.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

Robert Browning.

You like song, dear Private Atkins, its lilt and its sentiment, and you have been singing your way through battle, on the hills of France and the plains of Belgium. You are really a poet, as well as a first-rate fighting man, though the very idea will make your camp-fire rock with laughter. Well, in your letters from the war to the old folk and the young folk at home, you have written things worthy to be bound in cloth of gold.

You have, in particular, being a natural fellow, written yourself to them, and you are just splendid, singly and collectively. You look out from your epistles with a smile on your lips, humour in one eye and a touch of the devil in the other, and you cry, “Are we downhearted?” “No!” gladly answer we, who have been listening to the news of battle ringing down the street, and for a moment, perhaps, forgetting you and your writing on the wall with the bayonet point.

You do get the red, living phrases, don’t you, Private Atkins? “The hottest thing in South Africa was frost-bitten compared with what’s going on here.” “The Boer War was a mothers’ meeting beside this affair.” “Another shell dropped at me and I went like Tod Sloan.” “Did you see that German man’s face when I told him about our victories? Poor devil! He opened his mouth like a letter-box.” No, Thomas, you may not be a scribe, but you “get there,” especially when the order comes, “All rifles loaded and handy by your side!”

“It’s hard, but it’s good,” is how you sum up your campaigning, and there goes a bottom truth. “You can’t,” as you say, “expect a six-course dinner on active service,” but you would break your heart to be out of it all. “When I am in the thick of the fire a strange feeling comes over me. I feel and see no danger—I think it is the fighting blood of my forefathers.” Yes, and when you receive a rifle bullet through the arm or leg it feels “a bit of a sting,” nothing more, “like a sharp needle going into me, but shrapnel hurts—hurts pretty badly.” You are not, however, going to let mother, wife, or sweetheart know this, because it would worry them.

You dread to tell them that “when the bullet went in my leg the main artery was severed, and they are going to take part of it off and leave me a cripple for life.” Still harder is it to write: “I am wounded, and do not hope to live; I am going and so cannot come home as I hoped; I send all my love.” And then there is an echo of infinity and immortality in the thought, “When a fellow gets shot you never think he is gone, but that he will come back.” Someone softly starts singing “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and it runs sweetly along the ranks, the muffled prayer of inextinguishable hearts for a soul in flight.

But “Black Marias” and “Jack Johnsons” and “coal-boxes,” as you call the enemy’s howitzer shells, are driving along, and you accept them with your usual Atkins philosophy. The gun you know as “Aunt Sally” is flopping her big shells at you; “Calamity Jane” salutes you in odd volumes from miles away, and “Belching Billy” chimes in now and then. “Whistling Rufus,” whose shells are smaller, is also in the turmoil, but, being without fear of the big brethren, you merely have a contempt for him. Still, the whole roar keeps you from the hour’s sleep you are entitled to snatch, and therefore you gently swear at the Kaiser as “William the Weed,” nickname Von Kluck “Old Von o’Clock,” and grimly subscribe to the Uhlans as “Ewe-lambs.” Always you remain the good sportsman, saying, “Put me a shilling on Gravelotte for the Cesarewitch, if this letter is in time”; or, “Fancy Robins drawing the Palace 1—1. Cheers!”

What was it you said when the doctor was bandaging your shattered knee? That you wouldn’t be able to play for Maidstone United at Christmas! You had forgotten the remark. Possibly you had also forgotten that four of you, and rather “bad cases,” enjoyed “nap” on the top of a Red Cross motor-lorry, all the way to the hospital. One of you contained six bullets, and he said on the operating-table, “There will be enough to make the missus a pair of earrings.” Another of you, a big Highlander, had pleaded not to be taken from the firing line because “I have still some shots left and I can do something with them.” “Keep smiling” is your motto; “there’s only one winner in this game—roll on, England.”

Your gay bravery, your simple tenderness, and your fine humour make an epic, Thomas Atkins, and it is you yourself who write it, all unknowingly. “Tell mother I’m all Sir Garnet, Al.” “How is little Dick? Give him a kiss. He must be a great man in this long while. Love to the old lady and write soon”; and then, “I am wading in blood!” “Irene’s prayer-book is always with me, although it upsets me to think of her saying her little prayers for me. I have got some French slippers for the children, which I hope to be able to bring to England. They are very quaint—Bon jour!” “I parted with my badge to a little Belgian girl who, with her mother, was giving our boys milk to drink. She was just like Dora, and was wildly delighted to get such a souvenir.” “If you have not sold Nigger I should like to have a photo of him and the two boys, or Jack and the dog, to show some of my chums.” Thinking tenderly of home!

With tenderness, Private Atkins, you have chivalry; or, as you would put it yourself, you “know how to behave towards a woman.” “The Red Cross girleens, with their purty faces and their sweet ways, are as good men as most of us, and better than some of us. They are not supposed to venture into the firing line, but they get there all the same, and devil the one of us durst turn them away.” Of course not, my Irish soldier, and maybe it was you who plucked the grapes that a French maiden couldn’t reach, and had the surprise and confusion of your life when, in thanks, she kissed you on both cheeks. She knew, with the woman’s instinct, that she could fire your chivalry and still trust it. “Très correct” is the universal tribute you get in France, and it is a tribute to wear under your medals, next to your heart—a Legion of Honour for the gentleman you are.

You have given your French friends another true taste of yourself in your high spirits, your jollity, your manifestation that the merry heart goes all the day. You have the gift of wonder, which means imagination, and occasions for exercising it, as when the concussion of a shell flung you up into a tree, and your sergeant, missing you and looking around, asked in military language where you had gone! You came down to tell him and couldn’t, and thereupon the wonder of the thing seized him also. That incident was of the drawbridge order which links tragedy and humour, for they march together even in the battlefield with you. Serious, nay, grave things may be framing you about, but your eye never misses the rift of humour, and that is good.

There was a shell which lighted on a field kitchen while the master cook was stirring the dinner. It was a near shave for him, but, as he did escape, you mostly recall his rueful appearance as he gathered himself out of the scattered soup. Another of our vignettes is of some cows getting into the battle arena, and of half a dozen infantrymen calmly milking them. “Early doors this way; early doors, ninepence!” you once cried for slogan in a hard charge. When the German searchlights fell on you for the first time, your comment was, “Why, Bill, it’s just like a play and us in the limelight.” It was the Irish element in you which shouted, “Look at thim divils retraitin’ with their backs facin’ us,” adding, about a lucky shamrock supposed to have been given to the Kaiser by somebody, “Sure, Hinissey, and there’ll be a leaf apiece for us when we get to Berlin.”

Your philosophy, Private Atkins, cannot be upset even when a shrapnel bullet knocks a few inches out of your arm. No; your lament is that it carries away a tattooed butterfly of which you were very proud. You date your letters from the “Hotel de la Openaires, Rue de Grassies, bed most comfortable and all arrangements up-to-date.” You have your little joke all the time, and so when you meet the Foot Guards on a Sunday you ask them which band is playing in the Park? Now and then the joke is against you, but you only enjoy it all the more, which is the final testimony that you are a true humorist.

Perhaps if the joke singles out overmuch you go “all the colours of the rainbow,” a lovable thing, because it reveals your modesty. Otherwise you always are in your element, be the field tented white or stricken red. You are the complete knight in khaki, self-respecting, proud of your regiment, a lion-rampant of bravery and resolution, tender-hearted for all suffering; and we shall not forget your simple request, “Think kind of a soldier!” How could we when we know that you have a greater song than “Tipperary,” although you only sing it silently to yourselves in the dark watches of the night:

“A little I’m hurt, but not yet slain;

I’ll but lie down and bleed awhile

And then I’ll rise and fight again.”

JAMES MILNE

[THE WAR STORIES OF PRIVATE THOMAS ATKINS]

[I. MARCHING TO WAR]

Fair stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance.

Michael Drayton.

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife,

To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.

Sir Walter Scott.

One pretty French girl had learned only one English phrase, “Kiss me quick.” I don’t know who taught her, but when she walked up the lines repeating it she soon found out its significance: Truthful Thomas Atkins.

Keepsakes

The French girls are going mad on getting our cap-badges and the numerals on our shoulders. We have been served with jack-knives, and they want to buy them of us, but we will not part with them: A Private of the Worcesters.

Want Nothing

France is a lovely country, but the sun has been very hot and trying—almost as bad as India. The roads are lined with apple and pear trees, which are now laden with fruit, and the troops are not in want of anything in that line: Quartermaster-Sergeant R. Hodge.

“Cheer, Boys, Cheer”

It’s enough to give you fits to hear the Frenchmen trying to pick up the words of “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” which we sing with a great go on the march. They haven’t any notion of what the words mean, but they can tell from our manner that they mean we’re in great heart, and that’s infectious here: Sergt. W. Holmes, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.

Couldn’t Understand!

We never see a paper here; only a French one, and you should see the sport when our fellows try to read one. Everyone has his own way of reading it. The French people are very nice, also very generous. The only drawback is we can’t understand them—only just a few words now and again: Sergt. D. O’Donnell, 2nd Royal Irish.

Those Highlanders

The French people could not do enough for us when we landed at Boulogne. They were principally struck with the Highlanders. They had been told we were the most daring of the British forces, and one woman shouted out in admiration as we marched past, “There go the women from hell.” She thought that was the biggest compliment she could pay us: A Seaforth Highlander.

Her “Soldat”

The French people run out with bread and wine and fruit, and press them on the soldiers as they march through the villages. To-day we are camped by a field of lucerne, which is fortunate, as no hay is available. The tinned meat is very good, and we get French bread at times, which is excellent. Yesterday, passing through a village early, I went into a small buvette, and got coffee and some chocolate. The good woman refused all payment, saying she had a son who was “soldat,” and I could not get her to take any money at all: Anonymous.

Delightfully Hungry

I have never felt so well in my life, and, my word, I can eat—any time and all times. We get plenty of real good food, and tea or coffee. You will be rather surprised to hear we are served with roast beef, lamb, boiled beef, bully beef, cheese, bacon, jam, marmalade, large and small biscuits, onions, carrots, spuds, celery; in fact, we are living like lords. But we can’t get any London shag (that is the worst rub), nor any fag-papers, at least not with gum on them: Pte. C. A. Porter, Army Service Corps.

Dandy Lads

It rained a bit the first day we landed in France, but after that there were sunny days, and grand country to march through, the roads being particularly good. We did our thirty and thirty-five miles a day, and finished up fresh, bar a number who had bad feet and had to be left at the base.... These are the men, I said to myself, who have made Old England the real stuff which never allows confidence to flag in a great national trouble such as that through which we are now passing: A Private of the Royal Scots Fusiliers.

Flowers and Favours

The British troops met with an overwhelming reception immediately they landed on French soil. People went mad almost, so overjoyed were they to see us, and they begged us to give them pieces of biscuit and small articles as souvenirs. We never wanted for food or anything else among the French. The girls threw us flowers and people gave us wine, and anything, in fact, we wanted. They all wanted to shake hands with us, and we had great difficulty in marching, so surrounded were we with them. When we met the French soldiers—well, that did it. They commenced shouting and singing, and were properly excited at seeing us: A Private of the Royal Sussex Regiment.

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp!

It would do your heart good to see our fellows leaving for the front. Regiment after regiment, thousands of men, march past here every night: Tramp, tramp, tramp! All splendidly fit; sometimes with a band, sometimes singing. A great favourite is “Here we are, here we are, here we are again,” also “Tipperary.” As I am writing a train is leaving, packed, and the Tommies are singing, “Hold your hand out, naughty boy,” all happy. There is nothing on earth to touch our chaps for spirits: Sapper C. R. J. Green, Royal Engineers.

Pat’s Mishap

I was unlucky. I fell from a train at full speed. I was picked up for dead. French soldiers came and carried me away for burial. There were some women about. It was, I think, a woman who came up and looked at me and noticed something which made her think I was not a corpse—not yet. It’ll take a lot to kill me! So I was resurrected. I’m a good bit broken—something in my back, something in my head. Oh, yes; it’s a bad pain when I move. But that’ll be all right soon. I don’t look bad, do I? An Irish Private.

A Comparison

As regards France in general, they are a long way behind England in so far as trams, buses, etc., are concerned, but the country is simply handsome. There is not a bit of idle land anywhere, for all you can see for miles is nothing but wheat and fruit trees. The houses and villages, I should think, were built years ago. They put you in mind of the old-fashioned pictures of villages you see at home. The people are the most cordial I have seen, and at the present moment they would give you their hearts if they could: Pte. Talbot, Army Service Corps.

Church Bells

Just got into a big town. Resting here for a few hours, so snatched the opportunity to scribble this. Can hear all the church bells ringing. This is a very nice country indeed. Every bit of land is cultivated and there are tons of fruit of all kinds everywhere. The people here are about the cleanest I have seen. They are all wild with joy to think we are here helping them, and every single one tries to give us something. We get more food, drinks, tobacco, smokes, and fruit than we hardly know what to do with. It seems a bit funny to see the boys going fighting with cigars on, but it’s a fact. Have a pocketful myself at present: Corpl. Tupper, 4th Hussars.

Invited Out!

I put on a clean shirt, washed, shaved, and regular brush-up. We arrived at the house, or rather mansion, and were quite out of place, as we thought, walking on polished tiles in the passage with our big, heavy boots. It was a perfect slide. We took a seat by a big, round table, had wine, cakes, tea, cigars and cigarettes. To our surprise, this lady’s father was mayor of ----. The lady, whose husband was with his regiment about eleven miles away, sang us two songs in English—“The Holy City” and “Killarney.” It was a perfect treat to have one’s legs under a table and drink from cups and saucers. Next day we thought it was a dream: Pte. Pakeman, Army Service Corps.

Triumphant

Since we landed here our march has been a triumphal one. Everywhere the people received us with demonstrations of joy. When off duty we are taken possession of by the townspeople and the French soldiers, and fêted as though we had been lifelong friends. It is not uncommon to see British and French soldiers walking about the streets arm-in-arm, and the shopkeepers refuse to take money from our men. We are free to take what we want in the way of fruit or wine, and some of the traders are indignant even if you hint at payment. “Pay us in German coin when you come back from Berlin,” is a favourite injunction. We have no difficulty in making ourselves understood, for a surprising number of the people know enough English to go on with, and men of the French army are always ready to act as interpreters for us. The French troops are delighted at the prospect of having British “comrades-in-arms.” I was surprised to find that the average French “Tommy” is familiar with the names of most of our regiments and our officers: Lance-Corporal T. Kelly.

Thinking of Home

You needn’t worry about us. We are more concerned about you at home, and only hope that you are being well looked after in our absence. If we find that our loved ones are not being cared for, we will never forgive those responsible. That’s my little “grouse,” done with now, and I can tell of the happy times we’re having here: Anonymous.

[II. THINGS BY THE WAY]

Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,

And of armèd men the hum!

Lo! a nation’s hosts have gathered

Round the quick alarming drum,

Saying, “Come,

Freemen, come!

Ere your heritage be wasted,” said the quick alarming drum.

Bret Harte.

The French people were like mothers to us, giving us food, money, and wine. It is a pity to see them leaving their homes and having nowhere to go: Pte. W. Irwan, 1st East Lancashires.

Safe!

The refugees used to follow our troops, as they knew they would be safe. The French people were very kind to us. They would have given us their shirt if they thought we wanted it. They gave us plenty of bread and cheese and wine and water: Pte. W. Pallett, 2nd Royal Sussex Regiment.

Perfectly Happy

I am in a little French village, halted for the day, and with a few chums have found a house that has been left in a hurry all complete with cooking-pots. I am preparing the supper, which smells all right, but you should see the ingredients. I am perfectly happy, as this seems the proper country for me, and I never felt better in my life. I am picking up French all right, but I have not started eating frogs yet: Pte. T. Green, 5th Lancers.

“Du Pain!”

My chum and I came into a village one day, and we wanted to get some bread and tobacco. We met a peasant woman in the village, and I said, “Du pain.” She took me by the arm and led me into a house. She opened a door and shoved me into a dark room. I couldn’t see where I was, and thought it might be a dodge, so I waved for my chum, and he came in as well. Then we noticed some food and a bottle of wine on the table: Pte. Hannah, Scottish Borderers.

A Song of a Shirt

I shall be a handy man soon. Yesterday I washed my only shirt. We were allowed only one with us and one at the base. I have washed it twice a month and used all my soap. Washing is a luxury, but I have managed a couple of good swims. The worst part of yesterday’s washing was that just as I had finished wringing it out orders came to move off, and I have been all night shirtless, and it looks as though I shall be a day or two without, because I have no opportunity of hanging it out to dry: A Private, of Bridlington.

Like Rob Roy

We are quartered in large caves alongside a château three hundred years old. We occupy three caves, and a large fire is lighted in the middle of each to purify the air and keep us warm at night. The nights are bitterly cold and very damp. Incidentally it is fine to-day, but we have had days of pouring rain—not that it affected our spirits in the least. You should see us all clustered round our fires in the evening, the flames lighting up at times the oval ceiling of the caverns and our faces; we must look like bandits or Rob Roy’s boys: A Lance-Corporal of the London Scottish.

On and Off

We took turns on outpost duty—twenty-four hours on and twenty-four off. We slept in the open with equipment and rifle, and had to stand to arms an hour before dawn, about two o’clock. The reconnoitring patrols got a feed at nearly every farm or house they passed. We didn’t see a sign of Germans all the time, although the Uhlans were only a few miles away. We had a decent time, and the people are the best I have met. They think no one is as good as an Englishman, especially an English soldier: A Private of the Royal Marine Light Infantry.

A Baby Bunting

I heard a cry from an empty house, and when I went in I found a baby, about eleven months old, lying crying in its nightgown. I brought the youngster out. It was raining in torrents at the time, and I carried it about five and a half miles. It was crying all the way, and I tried to conceal it from our sergeant, but eventually he said I should be obliged to put it down as we were going into action, so I laid it in a hedge and covered it with some straw, hoping that someone would soon find it and take care of it. It made me think of my own children: Bombdr. Stoddard, Royal Artillery.

Early Piety

What struck me most was the number of Boy Scouts smoking clay pipes! They were only about six or seven years old, and they came up to us and asked us if we’d like a chew of tobacco. They seemed to enjoy it too. We were absolutely covered with flowers. All the horses were decorated up. There were some lovely crops of wheat destroyed. You could tell all the men were at the war. The women were in the fields bringing in the harvest. Children seemed pleased to see us, and they would walk along and hold our hands: Sapper Magridge.

Quiet and Restful

We are having a very quiet, restful time in an old semi-fortified farmhouse. The enemy has a very strong position directly ahead, and until they are turned out we cannot move. Four motor-cyclists are quartered in an old hen-house, the floor of which is covered with straw; the perches come in very useful as clothes-racks. We are just going to have dinner, consisting of mutton chops (killed last night), potatoes, fried cheese, and bread and jam. We can occasionally get eggs, but otherwise we live on bread and jam and stew made of tinned meat and vegetables: Dispatch-Rider Schofield, 5th Cavalry Brigade.

On the Quiet!

I can tell you it is a pucker rough life, for you have to get up as soon as it begins to get light, and it is about one o’clock before we can get down to it. You had better tell dad to volunteer for the war, for it’s pucker exciting, and over here there is plenty of wine, for every village we go through the people give us bottles of wine to drink, and our regiment has been very jammy, for all the Germans do when they see you is to shell you or run away, and when the shells begin to hum it is time to gallop. Well, mum, I cannot tell you where I am, as we are on the move every day, and if we did know, it must all be kept secret, for we came out here on the quiet: Pte. Clapinson, 3rd Hussars.

Sweetness—and Rain!

This is a sweet place when it rains; you can’t get less than two days’ rain at a time. I am now doing mounted orderly duty to and from headquarters, four miles away. It’s a rotten ride back at night, through pitch-black country, on your own. I can’t say I dislike this country at all. The people treated us well on our way here. They brought out baskets of fruit, bottles of wine, cakes, etc., to give us, all shouting out, “Vive l’Angleterre!” and all the little children walking along the street get hold of your hands and stroke them, as if you were a prize dog or something: Lance-Corpl. H. E. Forward, Army Service Corps.

Comfortable!

We have had a good deal of marching—twenty to twenty-five miles per day—on very little sleep; in bed by midnight and up by a quarter to two. Last Saturday I think was the nearest to purgatory that I have ever been. We marched about fifteen miles, and when we got to —— we were kept standing for four hours in a perfect deluge; some of us lay down in the road in about a foot of mud. When the order came to march on again we marched about another mile into a ploughed field and were told to make ourselves “comfortable.” It was better in the road: Pte. R. Williams, Royal Army Medical Corps.

Sucking Eggs!

The French and Belgians have been extremely hospitable, and wherever we go we have been received most generously—eggs, milk, wine, bread and butter, jam, handkerchiefs, apples, pears, plums, coffee, etc., are among the many gifts showered upon us as we ride through the various towns. Picture us riding along, the great unwashed, and often unshaven, being cheered by crowds of townspeople. I can best compare it to the crowds of long ago when a circus procession came through Wakefield. I have got quite expert at cracking eggs on the front of my saddle and sucking them: Sergt. Seed, 3rd King’s Hussars.

To his Mother

Well, Ma, I am, above all places, at Paris, and having a real good time, and the reason I am here is that the general had an accident four or five days ago through his horse stumbling and throwing him, and he was sent to a hospital, and naturally I had to follow on with the car to be ready to take him back to the front. Ye gods! it is good to be amongst civilized people again, and be able to have a decent bath, for I might tell you I was getting in a filthy state, having to go without a wash or a shave for sometimes three days on end: you can bet that I made up for it to-day. This morning I had an ordinary hot bath, and this afternoon, to make doubly sure that all the uninvited visitors were dead, I went to the English hospital and had a sulphur bath; after that a visit to the barber, and I felt a new man: A Private, of Bristol.

A Far Journey

We entrained (our destination unknown) in cattle trucks, forty men in each truck, penned in like sheep, and the only seats were the bottom of the truck. It was awful, to say the least of it, but it turned out rather a pleasant journey, as at every station we came to there were people, both gentle and simple, waiting to give us a cheer, also eatables, such as sandwiches and fruit of every description. It was remarkable to see small banners of the Union Jack in almost every hand, and shouting “Vive English,” while the troops replied with “Let the sons of France march to glory,” which they seemed to know the meaning of, as they joined in their own language. It was amusing to see rather handsome girls giving kisses to us in exchange for a badge, buttons, etc. They could not converse with us, but they conveyed their meanings by signs, and a common one was curling their moustache and drawing their hand across their throats, which meant we were to kill the Kaiser, to which we answered by showing our jack-knives. It was the same right through the five days’ journey; big and small stations alike they fed us, and it was well they did, for we received no rations; we were treated like gentlemen. I got a rosette of the French colours from a lady, which I will treasure. The kindness of these people I will never forget; they looked rather astonished at our accommodation and surprised at our good spirits under the circumstances: Pte. P. J. Grace, 1st Northumberland Fusiliers.

A River of Joy

The trip we have just made was tremendously exciting. Although it was night-time when we went up the river, this did not detract in the least from the reception our men got. All the villagers turned out, fired off crackers, and hung Chinese lanterns on the trees on the sides of the hills. This had a very charming effect. Towards midnight, however, a thick fog set in, and we were obliged to anchor till morning. The fog cleared away about 6 A.M., and we found ourselves lying opposite a small village which seemed to be deep in slumber. Not for long, though. Our men began to sing “It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,” “Rule, Britannia,” and “The girl I left behind me.” Window blinds went up, windows were thrown open, and people came out on to the verandahs in their “nighties” waving British flags, laughing and cheering and singing. By Jove, it sounded fine. Just imagine, if you can, high wooded slopes on each side, and this little village nestling amongst the trees; the morning mist quickly rising to reveal a bright sunny day, and you have it. One party of girls came down to the river-bank and started singing in return in French, much to everyone’s amusement, as it was easy to see they had just tumbled out of bed. The quayside was very busy that day, as a large number of ships were all discharging horses, men, guns, and all the munitions of war. The whole of the population turned out, and as our men rode away in a never-ending line one’s heart thrilled with pride, so businesslike and smart did they look in their khaki, their bronzed faces giving them the appearance of first-rate old campaigners, and inspiring everyone who saw them with the greatest confidence. I have seen many soldiers of many nationalities, but never soldiers who were a patch on those we are sending across to fight our battles. Good fortune be with them, and God bless them, is all I can say: An Anonymous Sergeant.

[III. THE FRIENDLY FRENCH]

And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread

The scatter’d foe that hopes to rise again....

Shakespeare.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother....

Shakespeare.

I think I owe all my luck to a mascot I carry in my knapsack. It is a beautiful crucifix, given to me by a Frenchwoman for helping her out of danger. It is silver, enamel, and marble, and she made me take it: A Driver of the Royal Field Artillery.

“A Sport”

When waiting for action we smoked cigarettes and ate apples and pears from the French orchard in which we were situated, while the good old owner—he was a sport—brought us out some coffee at four o’clock in the morning: A Private, of Cricklewood.

“Coo Naht”

I am making progress with my French, and I am not often at fault. Every time we go out people say “Good-night,” even if it is in the daytime, as that is all the English they seem to know. Little children say “Coo Naht”—that is the nearest they can get to the right pronunciation: Corpl. Fourneaux, Royal Engineers.

So Hospitable!

I was sent out one day with two chaps to search a wood and some houses to see if any Germans were hiding. As soon as we approached, the people (who had been hiding in cellars and other places), when they found we were Britishers, simply hugged us. They brought out eggs, bread and butter, and if we had stopped a bit longer it would have required a horse and cart to carry the things away: Pte. Gibson, Scottish Fusiliers.

The “Entente”

I have never seen such enthusiasm. Old men, women, and children fight in the streets to get close enough to shake hands with us, or beg a piece of cloth or a button from our uniforms as mementoes of the “Entente,” as they call it. At one village the women clamoured for locks of hair from us, and they had to get them. Even the sick are brought to the doors to see us pass: A Private Soldier.

Praise Indeed

The French cavalry are wonderful, though we never will admit that they are superior to ours. They never seem to tire. They will keep in the saddle for days without trouble, and are used to foraging for themselves wherever they go. In battle their bearing is magnificent. I have seen a mere handful of them charge twenty times their own number of Germans: Pte. H. Hill, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards.

“A Blooming Nuisance”

The French girls are awfully keen about our men, and you should see them when we arrive in any of the towns. They come and link arms with us until they are a blooming nuisance. It’s just goodness of heart, and we don’t like to be chivying them off, so they usually get buttons, badges, or anything they can beg off us just for a keepsake. We couldn’t be better thought of: Trooper W. Green.

Brave Women

The French people are very kind. They gave us everything before leaving any one place. They told us to drink as much beer and wine as we wanted and then to turn on the taps so that the Germans could not get any when they came. I think the French women are braver than the men. They brought us fruit into the firing line regardless of the shells and bullets that were flying about: Pte. T. Lacey, Lancashire Fusiliers.

Only Water Left

I feel sorry for the poor French. Be thankful you are living in England! We passed through village after village on the march, and there was not a living soul in the houses; doors and windows were smashed open, and everything broken. We passed one house to which the two women that lived in it had just returned after the Germans had passed. As we passed they gave us a drink of water—that was the only thing the Germans had left them: Pte. Crombie, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.

“Good Sports”

The French make a lot of us in camp, and when we pass each other in the field, no matter how busy the Frenchmen may be, they give us hearty cheers to encourage us on our way. There’s plenty of friendly rivalry between us when there’s hard fighting to be done, and when we do get there before the French they don’t grudge us our luck. They’re good sports right through to the core, and the British soldier asks nothing better from allies in the field: Lance-Corporal E. Hood.

“Give You Anything”

The French are so good-natured they would give anything, even to the last bit of bread in the house, to our people. To us invalids on our way through Paris they gave a good reception, bringing grapes, bananas, peaches, cigarettes, tobacco, and bouquets of flowers. They are thundering good-natured. To our mounted men the poorer classes would also bring out buckets of milk and of water, and the women would come with their aprons full of fruit. They would give you anything: A British Gunner.

Bearded like Pards

What strikes you most in this country is the enthusiasm of the people for their army. They have flocked to the colours by the thousand, and I fancy the biggest problem here is what to do with the men when you get them. Our own army looks small beside the French, but it is fit in every way, and we hear its praises sung in strange places. Some of our chaps look queer now that they have taken to letting their beards grow, and you would not know them: Private G. Busby.

“Fag” Making

We are always in the thick of it, and we are doing grand work. The whistle of the shells is not exactly Tango music, but still the troops are very cheerful. Most of the time we have had good weather, but just now the rain is a bit troublesome. The behaviour of the French people in the fighting area is wonderful. They are just splendid. It is very difficult to get a smoke here, and when anyone strikes a match it is amusing to see the rush. The British Tommies are getting quite expert at “fag” making: Pte. Kay, Northumberland Fusiliers.

The Little Children

The French “kiddies” all love the British Tommy, and would do anything to have a ride on one of our shoulders or hold our hands, and they stand on their heads with delight to receive a cap badge or something as a souvenir. Their bacca, which they call “tabac,” is cruel, and it costs more than English bacca in the long run, as it smokes so quickly and you have to smoke all day to get a smoke, whereas our bacca satisfies us in a minute or two. Their matches are horrible. “Allumettes” they call them, and they are a hundred a penny, and you have to wait half a minute for them to light and get asphyxiated in the bargain: A Private, from Mons.

In Hospital

All the other English wounded were sent to Havre, but somehow I got in with the French, and am here with them now. It is rather awkward, as I only know a few French words, but a French officer who has spent a lot of time in England comes and talks to me, and one of the nurses in another department knows our language and visits me whenever she can. The officer before-mentioned calls me “his Englishman,” and feels how strange it must be; he brings me English books and cigarettes, and looks after me like a father. These buildings are Roman Catholic schools and chapels, and stand in very nice grounds: Lance-Corporal Eccles.

Well Pleased

I have just had mother’s favourite potatoes and butter, French wine, fish, and rum and coffee, and apples and eggs to take home. I must say they are very nice people. They will do anything for you. It’s just like being in England. The only difference is the language. We can’t understand them, and they can’t us, but still we have done fine up to the present. You can get plenty of beer, but I would not disgrace myself with that, especially being on active service. I am very pleased with the way the French have treated us. They are good-hearted people. Don’t matter whom you see out, they all salute you, and the ladies bow to you. What more could you wish for? Pte. A. Rogers, Royal West Kent Regiment.

“Bonnie Fighters”

One thing, we are safely on the road to victory, without a doubt, and the gallant French army are doing great deeds. The town we are near is properly deserted, for during the day the enemy are shelling the surrounding country, and the villagers go up the hill into caves at daybreak, and go back to town at night. The French folk treat us very kindly, letting us use their wells and buckets to water our horses with, and letting us have anything we want, but the one outstanding difficulty is understanding what they say. Each regiment has an interpreter, and when we want anything in town we have to go to him and he puts us on the right road: Corpl. Cadwell, Royal Engineers.

“No Germany!”

They are a fine lot of people, the French. They will give the British troops anything. When we march through the streets men, women, and children run to the doors and wave their hands, throw kisses, and all that sort of thing. They are always pleased to see us, and in all cases they have aprons and baskets of fruit of all kinds, which they give us gratis. But the sight that touches the heart is to see the burning home of some poor old peasant, who can ill afford to lose a copper coin. But, believe me, the time is not far distant when there will be no Germany, and all I can say is, “God send it soon and sudden”: Pte. J. R. Coates, Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment).

No Singing Birds

A curious feature about this place is the almost complete absence of birds. One never hears birds singing as in England. The result is that the earth teems with spiders, etc., on which birds are accustomed to feed. I was on guard at —— during the past twenty-four hours, and it was intensely interesting to chat with French Tommies who gathered round our fire. They are frightfully “bucked” when they meet anyone English with whom they can talk. A large number of the H.A.C. speak French. For this reason, if for nothing else, the people here pay us a good deal of attention. They are deadly keen on getting souvenirs. If it is discovered that we have parted with our grenade or our shoulder letters, our leave is stopped. At the place where we landed 5 francs were offered for the letters “H.A.C.”: A Member of the Honourable Artillery Company.

Quite Royal!

The nearest approach to our reception in France is like what the King got when he came to Notts. There are hundreds of chaps in England who would give twenty years of their lives to get such a reception as we get wherever we go. I should advise any chaps coming to France to bring a corkscrew with them, because they will get loads of wine given them by the French peasants—they can’t do enough for us. And the girls! By Jove, there are some beauties—it’s Nottingham beauty over again. Our greatest needs at the present time are English cigs., blankets, and soap. I have only got thirty cigarettes left, and the chaps here will give anything from 1d. to 6d. for a cigarette. They are far more valuable than money. Another thing which is valuable is water. Water is more scarce than petrol. We have to walk about half a mile for water, and then it’s not very good. We’re not afraid of washing after one another in the same water. I’ve seen about a dozen wash in one bucket of water.... The French soldiers do look funny in red trousers and blue coats, compared with our khaki suits. Half our chaps are minus badges and buttons, which the French girls have taken as souvenirs—I got a little doll off one girl when we were at Rouen. I might mention that hardly any of the chaps have any money—I’ve got the large sum of 2½d.: Pte. F. Smith, Army Service Corps.

[IV. THE ENEMY GERMAN]

Smite, England, to the tramp of marching men—

The rhythmic heart-heat of a world in pain—

Smite, hip and thigh, with flashing steel, and then

Unfurl thy peaceful banners once again.

Horace Annesley Vachell.

Oh, Polly love, oh, Polly, the rout has now begun,

And we must march along by the beating of the drum;

Go dress yourself in your best and come along with me:

I’ll take you to the war that’s in High Germany.

Old English Song.

I have spoken to several prisoners who could speak English, and with no exception they all thought or were told that the British troops were no good at fighting—that it was only niggers we could face. They have got a different view by now: Sergt. Dickson, Coldstream Guards.

“Mister Bull!”

The Germans seem to have gone mad entirely, and are running about like bulls in a china-shop, playing havoc with everything that comes their way. Our business is to wait around until Mister Bull gets properly tired, and then we will lead him off by the nose in proper style: Lance-Corporal E. Twomey.

Not Suited to It

The Germans aren’t really cut out for this sort of work. They are proper bullies, who get on finely when everybody’s lying bleeding at their feet, but they can’t manage at all when they have to stand up to men who can give them more than they bargain for: Corporal J. Hammersley.

Christian

Not all Germans are cruel. On the Aisne I was lying for hours wounded. A German came along and bound up my wound under heavy fire. When he had made me ship-shape he was going to clear off, but a stray bullet caught him, and he fell dead close beside me: A Private of the Black Watch.

A Doubting Doctor

A big German surgeon came to me and said, “You don’t like to fight against us, do you?” I replied we did not care whom we fought so long as it was for the good of our country. “But you would rather not fight with us?” he said. “No fear,” I replied, and then he left me saying “Bravo”: A Captured Corporal.

X-Rayed

The Germans are bad fighters. They rely on their big guns to do their work. They won’t come out to fight you with their rifles.... I have seen three big battles, and got hit in the fourth one. Hard lines, isn’t it? I have the bullet in my foot yet, but I must wait for my turn, as there are a lot waiting to be X-rayed: Lance-Corporal G. Percy.

Took the “Bully”

We got caught in a wood, where I was wounded. When the fire stopped the Germans came to us and pinched everything we had. We drew five francs the day before, the only pay-day we had had out here, and the beggars stole the lot. They even sat down in front of us and tucked into the “bully” they had done us down for: Pte. Blissenden, Grenadier Guards.

“Roll on, London!”

One German prisoner says, “I don’t want to fight. Roll on, London.” I suppose he was a waiter in some of the London hotels. Some of them look pitiful sights. They are starved, and when they come here they are all well looked after. They say they are glad it is the British who have taken them. They know the French would not give them much. They have good reason too: An Aberdeen Reservist of the Royal Field Artillery.

Captured Uhlans

The Uhlan prisoners created some amusement as they were being marched along, for, as they are not used to marching, and were wearing great jack-boots, it nearly kills them, but they were pushed along by the infantry. While the Uhlans were thus being urged along the Frenchwomen tried to get at them and shouted to the soldiers to cut their throats. Fortunately for the prisoners, they were strongly guarded: A Gunner of the Royal Field Artillery.

Grave-digging

We were told off to bury German dead, but we couldn’t get through, there were so many, and we sent into their lines under a flag of truce to ask if they would come out and help. They sent a lot of men out, and they were quite friendly. They were well supplied with cigars, which they most likely looted from some French houses, and they offered us some, which we were glad of: Pte. Brady, Irish Rifles.

A Barber in Lambeth

I went to a village by motor with an officer to dress some German wounded, about forty all told. I was doing two German brothers, and they spoke very good English. One said, “Where are your good people going to send us?” I replied that I thought they would be sent to England, and he said, “That’s good. I hope it will be somewhere near Lambeth Walk, for I have a barber’s shop there, and then my wife can come and see me”: Pte. Flaxman, Army Medical Corps.

Berlin “Nuts”

I am writing this on a lady’s glove-box. I picked it up here, but how it got here God only knows. These German officers are awful “nuts,” and carry as many beautifiers as an actress on tour. They use their gloves for another purpose. They put a bullet or stone in the finger of a loose glove and flick the ears of their men. We found a wounded German who had been a clerk in London. His ears were extra large and were both swollen and skinned by the flicks he had got from his officers: Pte. F. Burton, of the Bedfords.

“Collies?”

It’s my opinion that you couldn’t find greater collies between the seven seas of the world than these Germans, not if you were to walk about for a month of Sundays, with all their bragging and bantering and bullying of the plucky little Belgians, and any Christian might be ashamed to use our wounded the way these sausage-faced German pigs used them. The “parley-voos” treated us right decently from the first day that ever we set foot in their country: A Private of the Connaught Rangers.

The Track of the Huns

One of the worst features of the war has been to witness the plight of the refugees in the stricken countries. I have seen many a strong man in our ranks with tears in his eyes when we have passed poor women and children flying from their homes, their only food being that which our soldiers gave them. Every village through which the Germans had passed in their retirement was practically blown to pieces. It is also tragic to see thousands of acres of corn and vines rotting, with no one to gather them in: Sergt. Walker, King’s Liverpool Regiment.

Got the Guns

The Germans seem to think that you can catch Irish soldiers with fly-papers, for they just stepped up the other day and called on us to surrender as bold as you like, and bolder. We didn’t waste any words in telling them to go about their business, but we just grabbed hold of our bayonets and signed to them to come on if they wanted anything, but they didn’t seem in a hurry to meet us. After a bit they opened fire on us with a couple of Maxims, but we just fixed bayonets and went for the guns with a rush. They appear to be delicate boys indeed, and can’t stand very much rough usage with the bayonet. We got their guns: Pte. E. Ryan, Royal Munster Fusiliers.

“Made in Germany”

The first thing we saw was what looked like a big black screen rolling up and blotting out the countryside. It turned out that the screen was the German motor-cars. I must tell you that they never marched until they got near to the firing line. They filled the cars with men, as thick as they could stick. Then another batch would sit on the shoulders of the others, and a third lot on theirs. Straight, it struck me as so funny the first time I saw it. I was reminded of a troupe of acrobats on the halls: A Private of the Middlesex Regiment.

“Over the Shoulder”

They don’t like steel, those Germans. I threw three of them consecutively over my shoulder on the point of the bayonet, and the very next moment a shrapnel shell burst right on my rifle. How I escaped with what I’ve got I don’t know. All the shell did was to blow my rifle to smithereens and the tips of my trigger and next two fingers off. The doctor says it’s only the tips gone. That’s good, as I shall have enough to pull the trigger with again, and if that fails there’s the “over-the-shoulder touch,” which is more than enough for the Germans: A Scots Guardsman, at Mons.

No Chocolates

It is pitiful to see the innocent women and little children driven from their humble homes to trek to different parts of France, literally starving on the road. And when they return they will find that their only shelters have been burned to the ground. I see in the papers that English people have been giving chocolate and cigarettes to the German prisoners, and, I daresay, every comfort they require. Yet a few weeks ago the same men were robbing, looting, and causing grief and anxiety in this country! Instead of giving them cigarettes and chocolates, English people should distribute the money amongst the wives and families whose husbands and fathers will never return: Gunner E. Tyler, of Bristol.

Kill or Wound?

One of the German soldiers captured by the Lancashires observed, “You shoot to kill; we fire from the hip, and only want to wound.” On a German officer who was made prisoner a diary was found in which was entered the advice: “Do not face the British troops when entrenched; their fire is murderous. First sweep the trenches with artillery fire.” One of the German methods of finding the range with their big guns is to heap up the corpses of their fallen men, and thus, when the Allied troops advance, their distance from the batteries can accurately be gauged: A Private in the Coldstreams.

A Lucky Escape

The devils came into the village and said the poor people were hiding English soldiers. They then set the houses on fire, and I could see the flames coming my way. I managed to get out before the stack took fire, only to run into the arms of three of the Germans. They were as drunk as they could be, and I soon got out of their grips. If two of them are alive their mothers will not know them. But I was caught a little later by two more of them. I thought it was all over with me, when one of them was shot dead by one of our chaps who was hiding. I didn’t know he was there, and you may imagine my feelings when he came running to me. We got away, but we should have been riddled if they had been sober: A Trooper of the 11th Hussars.

False Bugle-calls

We found the Germans continually sounding our bugle-calls for the purpose of deceiving our men, and one of our worst fights took place at a place I can’t tell you the name of, because the Germans sounded the retreat for one of our advanced battalions, and then it was attacked in murderous fashion as it deployed across the open in the belief that it was being ordered to fall back. For a time that threw the whole line into confusion, but we soon got right again, and drove the Germans off in fine style with the bayonet. After that bugle-calls were dispensed with, but the Germans soon “tumbled” to that and took to picking off the dispatch-riders who were sent with orders. In that way it happened that bodies of men never got their orders to retreat or advance, and that’s why some of our regiments got cut up here and there: A Private of the 18th Royal Irish Regiment.

A Tell-tale Diary

I found this diary on a German officer we had captured:

July 20: At last the day! To have lived to see it! We are ready. Let him come who may. The world race is destined to be German.

August 11: And now for the English, used to fighting farmers. To-night William the Greater has given us beautiful advice. You think each day of your Emperor. Do not forget God. His Majesty should remember that in thinking of him we think of God, for is he not the Almighty’s instrument in this glorious fight for right?

August 20: The conceited English have ranged themselves up against us at absurd odds, our airmen say.

August 25: An English shell burst on a Red Cross wagon to-day. Full of English. Ha! ha! serve the swine right. Still, they fight well. I salute the officer who kept on swearing at Germany and her Emperor in his agony. And then to ask calmly for a bath. These English! We have hardly time to bury our own dead, so they are being weighted in the river: Pte. Crow, 2nd Seaforth Highlanders.

[V. CAMPAIGNING IN GENERAL]

What of the faith and fire within us

Men who march away

Ere the barn-cocks say

Night is growing grey,

To hazards whence no tears can win us;

What of the faith and fire within us

Men who march away?

Thomas Hardy.

It is a rough life, getting food the best way you can, and cooking it all ways. One morning we were cooking some rabbits and the Germans surprised us, so we had to leave quick: Corpl. Prickard, 11th Hussars.

Wanted a Hat!

I have lost another horse. A piece of shell caught it, and another took my hat off, so I have a big French sun-hat now for headgear until I can find one lying about somewhere: A Trooper of the 15th Hussars.

A Day in Bed

There is one thing I would appreciate as much as anything just at present, and that is a day’s sleep in bed. We have not undressed for a month, and a little straw under some cover is considered a luxury: A Private of M Section, B Signal Company.

Lost!

If we lay down on the road we fell asleep at once, but if Germans got wind of us they were on top of us before we could get to sleep. We just lived on pears and apples, and eventually fell in with a party of French cavalry, who shared their bread with us: A Sergeant in an Irish Regiment.

Looked After

I am in the best of health and am getting plenty of food. We get bacon for breakfast, corned-beef stew for dinner, cheese and jam for tea and supper, plenty of tea and sugar, and at four o’clock every morning a half-quartern of rum, so you see they look after us all right: Lance-Corpl. Feeley, 1st Dorsetshire Regiment.

“Have You a Light?”

We keep a fire or candle going all day and night specially for lighting “fags” and pipes. If on the move we keep a lantern on the go, so if you could send me a good substantial pipe-lighter (I don’t care how much it costs) it will be the best turn you have ever done to the army, and I shall be in great demand: Sergt. Horwell, Royal Artillery.

Don’t Know!

It’s fighting and marching every day. There was a majority of us that thought it would be over by this time, but I am afraid that it will last a lot longer than what one thought. We get no news here at all, and we don’t even know where we are stationed; they won’t tell us anything: Pte. E. Lawrence, Bedfordshire Regiment.

The Cannon’s Roar

Townsmen who are used to the noise and roar of streets can stand it better than the countrymen, and I think you will find that by far the fittest men are those of regiments mainly recruited in the big cities. A London lad near me says it’s no worse than the roar of motor-buses and other traffic in the City on a busy day: Sergeant-Major McDermott.

Hard Lines

We had been two days and nights in the rain and were soaking to the skin. My section was told off to hold a farm till we got the order to retire, but to burn it before we retired. I was in a hay-loft setting fire to it when the floor gave way and I was sent flying through to the ground below, and I could not get up. It was hard lines: Private R. McBride.

Roughing It!

I am laid on my stomach on a barn floor writing this with the light of a candle I am lucky enough to get hold of. As I write this I can hear our big guns firing; in fact, they fairly shake the place I am in. We are just going to turn into some nice dry straw, and have a well-earned sleep. Talk about roughing it: a man that gets through this can get through anything at all: Trooper Stephenson, 18th Hussars.

A Sing-song

Every night round the camp-fire we have our photos out—that is, if we have any—then we have a song. The favourites are “Never Mind” and “The Last Boat is Leaving for Home.” The French people gave us a great welcome when we came here, and they have kept it up in every town and village we have come through: A Private of the 2nd Royal Scots.

One Blessing

We are a rough lot out here, and washing and shaving are things of the past. The roof we sleep under is large—the sky—and the rain comes through very often. Our shirts we change when they wear out. You must not worry too much if there are very long lapses between the letters, as we can’t always write. It’s a game of dodging shells here. There is one blessing: we get plenty of food, and they are looking after us the best they can: Sergt. Prout, South Wales Borderers.

Not Worrying

I’m doing and going as I’m told, not worrying, but taking things as they come. I’ve slept in barns, wool stores, cinemas, casinos, dock sheds, and for a bit had the stars as a counterpane. The fighting has been very fierce and close; as one pal said, “Oh! ain’t it ’ot?” We have been outnumbered, sometimes 10,000 to 2000, but our boys stick to them, and have played havoc with their “mass formations.” The Maxims have cut them down like corn, and when we charge with fixed bayonets see ’em run like rats. They will get no quarter from our “mob”: Pte. Bromfield, Royal Engineers.

Scrap Iron

We were kept on the go for a week, day and night, with hardly a wink of sleep. What we did get was just lying down and dozing off, sometimes in the road, and sometimes in a ditch. We raided a convoy. Bacon, biscuits, sugar, and jam all came to us. The wagons were simply packed up. I think we had about 150 lb. of bacon between four of us. We marched all that night, and in the morning we collected a few sticks and started to make tea and fry a few rashers, when they opened fire on us, and 15 lb. of scrap iron interrupted our meal: Gunner J. Talboys, Royal Field Artillery.

Not Swept Away Yet

The other day we were off in pursuit of a body of infantry, and when we overtook them they simply flung themselves down on the ground and let us ride over them. Then, when we came back, they surrendered. Some of them were so dead beat that they could not run away, not even if they had wanted to, and that seems to be true of their men everywhere. Some of them have had their fill of fighting and marching by this time, and I do not blame them, for they got it hot in the fighting with us since the third week of August, when they came along to sweep us into the sea: A Trooper of the 3rd Hussars.

From the Hip

The Germans have a funny way in fighting. Their infantry when advancing fire from the hip and come on in masses, splendid targets for our guns. As soon as one lot gets mowed down the gaps are filled up with fresh men. They are in terrible numbers—about ten to one in some places. Nearly all the men’s wounds are shrapnel, and heal wonderfully. Men almost cripples a day or two ago are going on splendidly since being treated here. My worst wound is on the right arm, a piece of flesh torn away, but with good dressing it should heal up well: Bombardier A. E. Smith.

A Cupboard Skeleton

Two Royal Irish Fusiliers picked me up and took me to a farm, where there were other three wounded. That night we heard somebody prowling round the farm, and thinking they might be the enemy, the Irish Fusiliers hid in a large cupboard, where they would be able to make a good attack. We hadn’t long to wait, and a small party of German infantry came in—on a looting expedition, likely. The men in the cupboard accounted for three, and the others yelled and ran. The farmer and his wife got scared, and they disappeared: Pte. Cunningham, 8th Northumberland Fusiliers.

Food for Powder

The impression we got was that the Germans have so many men available at the point where they deliver an attack that, as soon as one body gets tired out or shows signs of losing its nerve under fire, it is recalled to the rear and replaced by fresh men, who are brought up in motors and all sorts of vehicles. The used-up men are then taken away, and very likely they come on again after a rest. That’s an altogether new way of fighting, but I fancy the Germans go on the principle that “enough’s as good as a feast” in what they get from our rifle fire: A Private of the Manchester Regiment.