The War Stories of Private Thomas Atkins

XVII. THE MAN AMID WAR I was wounded on the 9th, Near the River Marne. They got me in hospital on the 13th, On the 18th they took off my arm: A Corporal of the Durham Light Infantry . Succouring the Enemy A lot of German wounded were moved into a wood for protection and shelter against the rain. Their own artillery opened fire, and soon all the trees were ablaze. The cries of the wounded were agonizing. A party of our men asked permission from their officers to go and carry the Germans out. They did it under heavy fire all the time. The wounded men were very grateful, and said that had it not been for our lads they would have been burned alive: A Private of the Highland Light Infantry . A Splendid Corporal Near Cambrai one dark night the British took the offensive against the Germans, who were holding a bridge spanning the canal. When our men reached an embankment running sharply down to the river several failed to secure a foothold and fell into the water. Four of the men, who were unable to swim, were in imminent danger of drowning, when Corporal Brindall, an excellent swimmer, plunged into the river and rescued all four in turn. He was clambering up the embankment himself, when a German shell exploded near him, killing him instantly: Drummer H. Savage, 1st Batt. Royal Berks . A Yorkshire “Tyke” One night in the trenches a man of the West Yorkshire Regiment took off his coat and wrapped it around a wounded chum who had to lie there until the ambulance took him away. All that night the game “tyke” stood in the trenches in his shirt-sleeves, with water up to his waist, and the temperature near to freezing-point, quietly returning the German fire. In the morning he would only own to “a bit of a chill that a cup of tea and a smoke would soon put right,” but I wasn’t surprised to learn that he had to be sent down to the base with pneumonia that afternoon. I hope he will pull through: A Sergeant of the Liverpool Regiment . The Other Man! After one of our hard fights in the Aisne, there was occasion to let the wounded lie out in the rain all night. I came on one man of the Royal Irish Fusiliers who was done for. He had a waterproof cloak over him, but near by was a man of the artillery without any covering at all. I asked the Irishman if I could do anything for him. “Nothing,” he said; “but if you would take this cloak and throw it over that poor chap there I would be so grateful. I will never pull through, but he may if he is attended to at once. Good-bye. See that the vultures don’t get me when I’m gone, will you?”: A Private from the Aisne . A Costly Apple There was a “boy” of the Connaught Rangers who made a rush out of the trenches under heavy fire to an orchard near by to get an apple for a wounded comrade who was suffering from thirst and hunger. He got the apple all right, but he got a German bullet or two in him as well on the way back, and dropped dead within fifty feet of the goal. The wounded chap had his apple brought in, after an artilleryman had been wounded in getting at it, and I hope he valued it, for it was the costliest apple I ever heard tell of bar one, and that was a long time ago: A Private of the Highland Light Infantry . No Hesitation Two of our R.A.M.C. men were bringing in a badly wounded trooper on a stretcher, when a fiendish fire was opened on them by a party of Germans posted on a hill about a mile off. Both of the bearers were hit, and though they strove manfully to keep up they collapsed from loss of blood, and the wounded man toppled over with them. A score of our men rushed out to their assistance, but some of them were shot down before they reached the stretcher. Four reached the stretcher and brought it in safely under a hellish fire. All the rest of the wounded were got in safely: Private H. Sykes . Glorious Examples One fellow had been shot in the forehead: he had been in the trenches, full of water, for six days and seven nights, and yet he said to me, “I don’t care what becomes of me. I have the satisfaction of knowing that I popped four of the Germans off before I got hit.” I made a few of them some cigarettes, and gave them water to drink, and did my best to make them comfortable. You would be surprised at the gratitude which they expressed to me. These men are glorious examples of self-sacrifice. There is no distinction of persons with the wounded out here: Motor-driver T. Robinson, of Brighton . A Kindly German After Soissons, I was lying on the field badly wounded. Near by was a young fellow of the Northamptonshire Regiment. Standing over him was a German infantryman holding a water-bottle to his lips and trying to soothe him. The wounded man was delirious, and kept calling, “Mother are you there?” all the time. The German seemed to understand, for he passed his hand gently over the feverish brow and caressed the poor lad as tenderly as any woman might have done. Death came at last, and as the soul of the wounded man passed to its last account I saw the German trying to hide his tears: Corpl. Houston, Seaforth Highlanders . Driven Out! The burning of the poor villagers’ houses was bad enough to see, but the sight of the poor women and children fleeing before the Germans would break a man’s heart. The poor people did not know what to do or where to go. Some of them came to us asking questions, but we, of course, could do nothing, for we did not understand their language and did not know what they were saying. They were in a bad way, and the sight of some of them and their misery brought the tears to the eyes of many of the men of my regiment: Pte. Rossiter, Royal Irish Rifles . Cried Like Babies The other day I stopped to assist a young lad of the West Kents who had been badly hit by a piece of shell. He hadn’t long to live, and he knew it, too. I asked him if there was any message I could take to someone at home. The poor lad’s eyes filled with tears as he answered, “I ran away from home and ’listed a year ago. Mother and dad don’t know I’m here, but you tell them from me I’m not sorry I did it.” When I told our boys afterwards about that they cried like babies, but, mind you, that is the spirit that is going to pull England through this war, and there isn’t a man of us that doesn’t think of that poor boy and his example every time we go into a fight: Corporal Sam Haslett . The “Kiddies” The worst part, to my mind, was to see the plight of the poor women and children. English people at home cannot realize what these poor creatures suffered. We used to meet them on the road utterly worn out with walking and carrying their babies and the few small things that they had. They wept with joy on seeing us. It seemed grand to be a soldier. No matter how tired we were, it was almost a free fight as to who carried the “kiddy” and the bundle, and there was always a tin or two of our “bully” to spare. We made them spare it if there wasn’t: A Private of the Lancashire Regiment . Finely Done When we were waiting for the order to go in I saw a cavalry sergeant who had been badly wounded three times and was still pegging away at it. As he was fighting I saw him go to a badly wounded corporal who was shouting to be taken out of the way of the line. The wounded sergeant bound up the other man’s wound, and then sat him on his own horse and sent him back out of the way. Then I saw the sergeant limp along on foot as best he could after his regiment to fight again. I don’t know what became of him, but I know I shall never see a finer thing as long as I live: A Wounded Hussar . What McCabe Did McCabe helped me to dress my knee wound under a hail of shells and bullets. I had been lying there for half an hour when Mac came along. “Hullo,” he said, “what’s up?” “Rip up my trousers,” I cried, “and help me to bind my knee.” While we were getting on with the job the shells started to pepper about. I said, “Clear out, Mac, you’ll get hit.” He said, “After I’ve finished with you.” He then went after the ambulance men, but it was like looking for a bushel of gold. He did not return. I then made up my mind to crawl to safety, so I discarded my rifle and equipment, and with another fellow crawled about 600 yards back through a swede field: Corporal Erler . Taking the Salute A troop train with a thousand Belgian soldiers came in. They looked terribly dirty, but awfully earnest. They seemed delighted to meet an Englishman, and always wanted to shake hands. I reckon I shook hands with a couple of hundred of them. When they saw an English officer they jumped to the salute. As they passed a major of one of the Scottish regiments who was lying on a stretcher, having been shot in the chest twice, and also other parts, they saluted him, too. The major, although he was very weak, cried to his orderly, “Hold me up. I can’t take a salute lying down.” His orderly told him he was too ill to move, but he persisted, and he was propped up, and acknowledged the salutes, with hardly sufficient strength to hold his hand to his forehead. It was a pathetic sight: Anonymous . A Brave Sergeant We were in a very hot attack in defending a bridge. The Germans poured a very destructive fire into us; we were forced to give way, and had to retire across the bridge. There was practically no shelter, and during our retirement one of our officers was severely wounded. He would undoubtedly have fallen into the hands of the enemy but for the extreme bravery of Sergeant Cropp, who, perceiving the situation, gallantly ventured on to the bridge and, seizing the wounded lieutenant, placed him on his back. Instead of risking a journey across the shot-swept bridge, he decided, encumbered as he was, to swim the canal, which he did, and swam with the wounded officer out of the line of fire and into a place of safety: A Scots Fusilier . Officer and Gentleman About three in the afternoon, just as our artillery had got up ready to cover us, the Germans found our range with artillery, and down came the “coal-boxes.” Near me was lying our brave captain mortally wounded, and as the shells burst he would occasionally open his eyes and call out—but ’twas very weak—“Stick it, Welsh, stick it.” Many of the wounded managed to crawl up and down the firing line “dishing out” ammunition we were unable to use, so our brave lads stuck at it until our artillery got into action and put “paid” to the enemy’s account. We had won! The “contemptible little army,” are we? We made them eat their words. Out in that field were strewn thousands of German dead and wounded. They even piled them up and made barricades of their dead. Toward dusk, though we were still exposed to terrible shell fire, several of our lads volunteered to collect the wounded. Many got hit in doing so. Captain Haggard died that evening, his last words being, “Stick it, Welsh!” He died as he had lived—an officer and a gentleman: Pte. C. Derry, Welsh Regiment . The Spirit of Old There is absolutely no doubt that our men are still animated by the spirit of old. I came on a couple of men of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders who had been cut off at Mons. One was badly wounded, but his companion had stuck by him all the time in a country swarming with Germans, and though they had only a few biscuits between them they managed to pull through until we picked them up. I pressed the unwounded man to tell me how they managed to get through the four days on six biscuits, but he always got angry and told me to shut up. I fancy he went without anything, and gave the biscuits to the wounded man. They were offered shelter many times by the French peasants, but they were so afraid of bringing trouble on these kind folk that they would never accept shelter. One night they lay out in the open all through a heavy downpour, though there was a house at hand where they could have had shelter. Uhlans were on the prowl, and they would not think of compromising the French people, who would have been glad to help them: Lance-Corpl. Edmondson, Royal Irish Regiment . “Hallelujah!” We had been lying in the trenches firing for all we were worth. On my right, shoulder to shoulder, were two Salvationists. I remembered them as having held a meeting with some of us chaps about a week before. As we lay there with the bullets whistling round us these two were the coolest of the whole cool lot! After we had been fighting some time we had orders to fall back, and as we were getting away from the trenches one of the Salvationists was hit and fell. His chum didn’t miss him until we had gone several hundred yards, and then he says, “Where’s ----?” calling him by name. “I must go back and fetch him!” and off he hurried, braving the hail of shot and shell. I admired his bravery so much that I offered to go with him, but he said, “No, the Lord will protect me; I’ll manage it.” So I threw myself on the ground and waited. I saw him creep along for some yards, then run to cover; creep along, and take shelter again; and, finally, having found his chum, he picked him up and made a dash for safety! How the bullets fell around him! Into the shelter of some trees he went; out again, and in once more; and when he did get into the last piece of clearing I couldn’t wait any longer, so I rushed forward to help him. Then I got hit. What do you think the brave fellow did? He just put his other arm around me and carried us both off. Darkness was fast coming on, and presently he laid us both down and found the wounds, which he bandaged up with strips which he tore from his shirt. I shall never forget that terrible night: An Anonymous Private . “A Rare Good One” Near our trenches there were a lot of wounded, and their cries for water were pitiful. In the trenches was a quiet chap of the Engineers, who could stand it no longer. He collected all the water-bottles he could lay hold of, and said he was going out. The air was thick with shell and rifle fire, and to show yourself at all was to sign your death-warrant. That chap knew it as well as we did, but that was not going to stop him. He got to the first man all right, and gave him a swig from a bottle. No sooner did he show himself than the Germans opened fire. After attending to the first man he crawled along the ground to others until he was about a quarter of a mile away from us. Then he stood up and zigzagged towards another batch of wounded, but that was the end of him. The German fire got hotter and hotter. He was hit badly, and with just a slight upward fling of his arms he dropped to earth like the hero he was. Later he was picked up with the wounded, but he was as dead as they make them out there. The wounded men, for whose sake he had risked and lost his life, thought a lot of him, and were greatly cut up at his death. One of them, who was hit so hard that he would never see another Sunday, said to me as we passed the Engineer chap, who lay with a smile on his white face, and had more bullets in him than would set a battalion of sharpshooters up in business for themselves, “He was a rare good one, he was. It’s something worth living for to have seen a deed like that, and now that I have seen it I don’t care what becomes of me.” That’s what we all felt about it: A Corporal of the Bedfordshire Regiment . XVII. THE MAN AMID WAR War, that mad game the world so loves to play. Swift’s “Ode to Sir William Temple.” The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave. Campbell’s “Hohenlinden.” But there is neither East nor West, border, nor breed nor birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth! Kipling’s “Ballad of East and West.” Everybody is brave out here, but we all pass the biscuit on to the flying-men. If ever men won a V.C. they have: An Infantry Private . “All’s Well” It’s all “Vive l’Anglais” where we go. The villagers look on us as their saviours. We all feel very cheerful and all have the one idea that we must win, so as long as we are not downhearted. “All’s well” will be the cry: An Unnamed Private . The Beginning You have a sort of want-to-go-home-to-your-mother feeling at the start, but that soon goes when you get into your stride. When your pal gets wiped out at your side you feel anxious to get your own back: Private W. A. Cast . Holed! My hat has six holes punctured by shrapnel. One shot carried half of the badge away, another caught the wire rim and doubled it up like a hat-pin to five inches. I have had up to a sovereign offered for it, but I am sticking to it, you bet: Pte. Cawley, 3rd Coldstream Guards . Jammy! Now about this jam. If you get a big pot you’ll carry it along, and like as not get it smashed. Then your whole kit’s muckered up. Likewise if you get it in a tin you’ll open it and take what you want, but you’ll have no lid to put on, so you’ll leave the rest behind: Pte. Moss, of the Hussars . Next for Shaving One daring thing I saw on the Aisne was done by a man of the Buffs. He was surprised by the Germans, and the only weapon he had to meet the attack of one who came at him with a rifle was a half-brick. He let fly with it, and caught the “sausage” on the head, bowling him clean over. Then he picked up his rifle and coolly took his position, calling out, “Next for shaving”: Pte. G. Barton, Royal Engineers . A Strange Meeting A few years ago I was a delegate for the I.L.P. at the International Socialist Congress at Stuttgart, and stayed at the house of a German, Hans Woesschhoeft by name. After the battle of the Marne I was with a force pursuing the Germans, and one day engaged in bayonet fighting a German cavalryman. Looking at him closer, I recognized my host of happier days. He recognized me, and we had not the heart to fight further. He saved the situation by surrendering: Corpl. Hayhurst, Shropshire Light Infantry . “All We Want” We are still getting on in the pink of health, and have all we want. My chum, ——, wishes to be remembered to you; he says he doesn’t want to come back again to England. We are amongst some of the finest people I have ever met, and they will give us anything we want. We can get plenty of tobacco here, so will you please send me a pipe? I shall get it some time. Well, dear, I can’t say more now, so will wish you good-bye for the present. Tell the missis I wish to be remembered to her. I will close with heaps of love: A Sergeant of the 3rd Hussars . Dare-Devils The army is full of dare-devils who are never happy unless they are risking their lives in some extravagant way. Two men of the Leinster Regiment had an argument about each other’s running powers. To settle the dispute they had a hundred yards sprint outside the trenches under German fire all the time. Both had some narrow escapes, but got through without a scratch. They wanted to do it over again, but an officer stopped them: Pte. R. Collier, Sherwood Foresters . An Evil Eye! You can see that the German hates you by the evil look in his eye. It isn’t safe to go near him unless you have a bayonet in your hand. I was trying to do something for one wounded German, and the next thing I saw was his mate from behind him coming for me with a bayonet. He was wounded, too, but he thought he was going to get a stick at me. But I stuck first, and he did not want more than one, I can tell you. You have got some funny jobs to do in fighting: A Private of the Coldstream Guards . Signed the Pledge! Wine is offered us instead of water by the French people, but we are refusing it. Some of the hardest drinkers in the regiment have signed the pledge for the war. Some of the French tell of miraculous escapes. One man was holding a glass of water to a wounded comrade when a bullet shattered the glass. In another case a man came out of action with two bullets in his pocket. One had travelled through a neighbour’s body before being spent, and the other had struck a cigarette-case and had been deflected: A Private of Withington . The Balm of Baccy We are issued tobacco, but those who haven’t pipes find it difficult to get a smoke, as cigarette-papers are very scarce. As much as five francs has been offered for a 1d. packet. Thank goodness I have a pipe. It is really marvellous the amount of comfort and enjoyment one derives from a smoke. During the cold nights, when unable to sleep through being on some duty, sitting round the old camp fire thinking, the old pipe of ’bacca has a very soothing effect. There is something missing when one is without it: Sergt. Ibbitson, Cyclist Company . His Spare Time In the haste of the retreat the Germans abandoned and we picked up bicycles, gramophones, concertinas, accordions, civilian clothes, and provisions of all kinds, and what not. There were a lot of dead Germans behind them. One officer was sitting quite natural, with his head resting on his hands. Another chap had apparently been a bit of a carver, for he had just finished carving a doll’s house, with furniture complete. He had evidently been doing it in his spare time under fire: Pte. Trobe, Royal Artillery . Wet, But Exciting I have a month’s growth of whiskers, and I look horrid. We are all the same. I have not had a chance of a wash for a week. The last wash I had was after twenty-four chaps had washed in one bucket. At the time of writing I am soaking wet, and am waiting for the sun to dry me. We are all ready for anything. We have lost thirty of our men. Thank God, I am spared, but I am ready to die for the old country. I have been soaking wet for a week, but we are on the move—too exciting to notice anything: Pte. T. Percy, Army Veterinary Corps . “Nearer, my God, to Thee” It was raining like blazes and a cold, wretched night. We all knew we were going into action in the morning, and we stood together while shelter was found for us. Suddenly somebody started to sing “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and the whole battalion took it up, and we sang it right through. Next we had the “Glory Song,” and it was impressive. We went into action the next day, and on the following night twenty-five or thirty of our men who had sung those hymns were buried, and an officer who read the service was in tears: Pte. Baker, Coldstream Guards . Happy all the Day It’s a fine sight to see us on the march, swinging along the roads as happy as schoolboys and singing all the old songs we can think of. The tunes are sometimes a bit out, but nobody minds so long as we’re happy. As we pass through the villages the French come out to cheer us and bring us food and fruit. Cigarettes we get more of than we know what to do with. Some of them are rotten, so we save them for the German prisoners, who would smoke anything they can lay hands on. Flowers also we get plenty of, and we are having the time of our lives: Corporal J. Bailey . “Supreme Beings” The roads are simply cruel. But the worst is we cannot get a decent smoke. I am in the best of health, what with the feeding and the open-air life, the stars being our covering for the last few weeks. We have seen some of the most lovely country imaginable. Some of the hills were four miles long, with about eight S-bends in them. The people over here go half mad when we go through the villages and towns. They throw fruit and flowers at us, give us wine, and goodness knows what. If we happen to stop they run out to shake hands and hang round us as if we were supreme beings: Driver L. Finch . “Who Goes There?” I was posted on guard, and after about an hour I began to feel sleepy, so I went to stand beside a wagon, when suddenly I heard a noise. Then I shouted, “Halt! who goes there?” But there was no reply. Again I shouted. Still there was no response. Then I saw a figure move about five yards away from me, but as it was so very dark I could not tell whether it was one of our own men or not, so I shouted for the last time, and as there was no reply I fired. The guard turned out and ran to the place, bringing back the victim, shot through the shoulder. He was a German spy: Driver Renniberg, Army Service Corps . “Mum’s the Word” Wish I could describe all I have seen to you; but have not the time, for one thing, and not allowed to give anything of importance in our letters, of course. The French are fine, generous people. Have seen and conversed as well as possible with their wounded, as we have passed some quantity on our way in trains, and German prisoners with them. From what I have seen of them so far, especially those returning from the front, they are fine fellows. Taking them all round, I believe they are bigger than our fellows. The Germans appear similar to ours, although I could only see them by lantern light for a few seconds as they were lying down in railway goods wagons—they may have been wounded. The French appear to be treating them well. This is a beautiful country—rather flat what I have seen, but well-cultivated soil similar to round Cambridge: Private H. J. Charity . The Impossible Order We enjoy the hard life all right because it’s full up with excitement, and we are doing our little bit towards squaring off that big account with the Germans. They’re not doing the fine things they promised to do, and it must make them sick to think of their failure to wipe out our army, for you can take it from me that they had their orders direct from the Kaiser that the British force was to be punished at any cost for daring to come over here without his orders. There’s been punishment enough, God knows, but it hasn’t all been on the one side. There’s many a German could tell of being punished for all he was worth, and they won’t be in a hurry to deal out punishment to us again: Private E. Wood . The Valiant Spirit After marching and fighting nearly every day we are all feeling like veterans now, and we are ready to keep the ball rolling for just as long as it takes to give the Kaiser’s lads a lesson in soldiering that is likely to be remembered in their precious Fatherland so long as there are Germans alive. We are not kidding ourselves about what we have before us, but we are bracing ourselves for it, and we will certainly put our best foot forward and get our backs into the work as you would expect British soldiers to do. This is going to be the biggest thing we’ve ever taken on, and there’ll be many an English home in mourning before it’s through; but you simply must make up your minds to face it as bravely as we are facing it, because that’s the only way to win, and we’re out to win at any price. We can’t and we won’t allow the Germans to get the best of us in this fight, and they will have to trample on our dead bodies first before they get a chance of trampling on our flag, as they say they will. The dead won’t all be Britons, and we have no doubt about who’s going to win, if it takes us a century to do it: Private S. Hobson . Spared! In the hospital there were twenty wounded, including three Germans, in charge of an English doctor. After our troops had retired to their base, some distance in the rear, the hospital was raided by a party of fifty Germans. They were all more or less under the influence of drink, and they demanded that we should tell them where our regiment was. Not one of us would give the game away, and they thereupon said they would shoot us all. They commenced flourishing their revolvers and shouting, and I can tell you that I began to shake. I was really afraid then, and I thought our numbers were up. But the unexpected happened. The three wounded Germans implored their comrades to spare us, pointing out that they had been most kindly treated by the English doctor: A Private of the Hussars . Jolly Boys are We! I am sitting on the grass in a huge encampment of some thousands of men who, despite all kinds of adverse circumstances, are still as jolly as the proverbial skylark. It is quite remarkable to see the philosophical way in which Tommy takes everything. Here is a little example which may, perhaps, be amusing to some of the Merrie Villagers next Sunday. A huge field, inches thick in mud, nice clay soil, which hangs on to you like grim death; wet shirts, due to a steady downpour all night; no tea for breakfast, owing to the rain having put all fires out; and the troops sitting as best they can on their waterproof sheets on wet earth, doing what? Why, singing, at the top of their voices, “It’s a long, long way to Tipperary!”: Bombdr. Barron, of Finsbury Park . The “Born Grousers” Just now we suffer more from the plague of spies than we did from flies in South Africa. “Kill that spy” is a cry as necessary as “Kill that fly” at home. Scarcely a day passes without the arrest of Germans or Austrians engaged in their low trade. They get short shrift. A chap can’t be sorry for them; they are such dirty dogs. They are going about circulating lies of all kinds. One of their yarns is to tell of whole regiments wiped out. Sometimes it is a French regiment and sometimes a British one. One of the kidney tried it on in a café here to-night. He made free with the name of a regiment actually quartered here. When we had done with him he had practical proof that this scurvy German method of killing off your enemies is only satisfactory so long as you can avoid a meeting with the “killed and wounded.” We are all comfortable here, and there is no shortage of any kind, so if you hear from the born “grousers” of hardships don’t believe them: Corporal G. Robbins . Well Tended I was about the last man that got hit, and I got a proper one too. An explosive bullet got me behind the knee, and blew away my knee and part of thigh and shin. I lay there for a time in the forest with no one but the Germans, who were not at all unkind to me; they gave me water and wine to drink, and two of their Red Cross bandaged my leg up temporarily until the ambulance came along about ten hours later. Well, dad, if I ever prayed I prayed during that time; I was in sheer agony the whole time. Eventually the ambulance came along and brought me back (a prisoner, of course) to a Roman Catholic chapel, which was converted into a temporary hospital, and I lay there till I was brought out to a château, where two German doctors amputated my leg. They did their best for me, but in a rough way. I was there for about ten days with hardly any food, as they hadn’t it for themselves, only dry bread and black coffee. Our own people released us, and took all the Germans who were there prisoners: Sergt. O’Dwyer, Irish Guards . “Archibald” a Drawback The Germans have a topsides gun we call “Archibald.” He shoots extraordinarily well on some days and damn badly on others. They always get our height correct, but so far have brought nobody down. Several machines have been hit by his shrapnel bullets and bits of his shell. He also flies a sort of parachute which he uses to range on. The other day we pulled his leg properly by getting between him and a bright sun so that he could not see us properly. He sent up his parachute, height exactly correct, fuse well timed, and proceeded to pepper it no end, all about half a mile away from us. Once I heard his beastly shells whistling above the noise of the engine when we came out of the clouds, so he must have been jolly near. He has a twin brother named “Cuthbert,” who is a large howitzer. His first shot is good, but the remainder always miles behind. “Archibald” certainly is a drawback, as one has to be rather careful to circumvent him, as the blighter’s shooting has improved wonderfully: An Army Airman . “Here Comes the Last” It is amusing to hear some soldiers speak when they come down the line, and it is becoming quite a joke to say, “Here comes the last of such-and-such a regiment,” for invariably they claim to be the last—all the others are cut up. It is no doubt the case that some battalions have been severely handled. I met one of the Dorsets—but here hangs a tale. You will know the old bookshop in Churchwallgate. On the day I left Macclesfield I called in to wish the bookseller good-bye. It was mentioned incidentally that he had a relative who had been called up; I had met him on one occasion, and would I be likely to see him again? Of course this was highly improbable, but I did meet him. After we had retired from —— I jumped up on a truck-load of biscuits along with others, and said not a word, being too busy admiring the magnificent beauty of the country in this district. At last we talked of things in general, of the inferior rifle-shooting of the Germans, but with respect of his shrapnel, and I mentioned Macclesfield, hoping to be back at Christmas. A man of the Dorsets cocked his ears. “Macclesfield! Put it there, Corporal,” he said, holding out his hand. “Put it there. I have been weighing you up for the last ten minutes, wondering where I had seen you before. Now I know.” This was the man whom I never expected to see, and we met under difficult conditions on a truck racing hell for leather through a country which a few days later was the grave of many a German soldier: Pte. Dickenson, Army Service Corps . Saved by a Curé A smart young corporal accompanied me to reconnoitre, and we went too far ahead, and were cut off in a part of the country thick with Uhlans. As we rode in the direction of —— two wounded men were limping along, both with legs damaged, one from the Middle sex and the other Lancashire Fusiliers, and so we took them up. The men were hungry and tattered to shreds with fighting, but in fine spirits. We soon came across a small village, and I found the curé a grand sportsman and full of pluck and hospitality. He seemed charmed to find a friend who was English, and told me that the Germans were dressed in the uniforms of British soldiers, which they took from the dead and from prisoners in order to deceive French villagers, who in many places in that district had welcomed these wolves in sheep’s clothing. We were warned that the enemy would be sure to track us up to the village. The curé said he could hide the two wounded men in the crypt of his church, and put up beds for them. It has a secret trapdoor, and was an ancient treasure-house of a feudal lord, whose castle we saw in ruins at the top of the hill close by. Then he hid away our saddlery and uniforms in the roof of a barn, and insisted upon our making a rest-chamber of the tower of his church, which was approached by a ladder, which we were to pull up to the belfry as soon as we got there. He smuggled in wine and meat and bread and cakes, fruit and cigarettes, with plenty of bedding pulled up by a rope. We slept soundly, and the owls seemed the only other tenants, who resented our intrusion. No troops passed through the village that night. In the morning the curé came round at six o’clock, and we heard him say Mass. After that we let down the ladder, and he came up with delicious hot chocolate and a basket of rolls and butter. Our horses he had placed in different stables a mile apart, and put French “fittings” on them, so as to deceive the enemy: A Non-Commissioned Officer in the Dragoons . After the Battle We, whose work commences only after the battle, have learned to know things that baffle description. Waiting all day long in more or less sheltered positions is sad enough: with the noise of rifle fire and the roaring of the guns we cannot but constantly think of the poor fellows who are being hit. The din of the battle grows less, the night draws on, the moment has now come for us to do our task. With acetylene lamps to light us, we cross the battlefield in all directions and pick up the wounded. As to the dead, alas! how numerous they are! We find them petrified in their last attitude in their last élan . And the crying and moaning of the wounded scattered in the cornfields and among the damp meadows! I know of nothing more poignant than that. The bullets nearly always go right through; wounds in the chest or in the abdomen are almost certainly mortal. Fortunately, such wounds are comparatively few in number. German shells are more noisy than efficient, and their splinters generally only cause small wounds. I must add that the bullets of our rifles are as deadly as those of the Germans, while our shells are far more dangerous than theirs. The poor devils who are hit by them are to be pitied. A good many Germans allow themselves to be made prisoners; they know we will treat them humanely: A Member of the Ambulance Corps . XVIII. THE COMMON TASK The land we from our fathers had in trust, And to our children will transmit or die: This is our maxim, this our piety; And God and nature say that it is just. That which we would perform in arms—we must! Wordsworth’s “Motherland.” Glory we count of lesser worth Than wife and babe and hearth and home; Theirs is the mandate speeding forth Our steps of thunder on the foam; For them we fight, for them we stand, Yea, and for faith ’twixt land and land. William Watson’s “Ten Men Forsworn.” Give my love to Patrick-street, Waterford, for that is where the best girl on earth lives, and tell Ireland that we’re doing our duty and that Thomas Moran will have another go at the Germans directly the doctor permits: Pte. T. Moran, East Lancashire Regiment . Busy! We have had no time for anything, for when we have a minute to spare I have to give my clothes a scrub, and they don’t half get in a state. I have only got one pair of socks, and I have to wait while they dry before I can wear them: Pte. Chapman, 3rd Hussars . “Really Good” I am well, and just about having the time of my life. It’s really good always being on the move, seeing fresh sights every day; and if there should be a few Germans on the move—why, it only increases the fun, and throws a little more excitement into the work: Corpl. R. Carton, Royal Field Artillery . A Great Time! We are having good sport out here. I have got as good a heart now as I had when I left home. I tell you there is nothing better than having a few shells and bullets buzzing round you as long as you don’t stop one. We are having some fine feeds out here—ducks, chickens, rabbits, and bags of fruit: Trooper G. W. Maddocks, 5th Cavalry Brigade . In Mourning Every now and again our vans go out to aid in collecting and dealing with the poor fellows who are wounded. The dead, of course, are beyond earthly aid, but the chaplain reads some prayers as the bodies are interred. Burials take place at all sorts of queer places—by the roadside, in farmyards, etc. It is awful to see the devastation which has been wrought: Pte. Coombe, Army Medical Corps . Consolations Except for a bad cold and having lost all my belongings, I am none the worse. The thing I am sorry about is that it all happened so soon and sudden, and I hardly had time to look round. But I am ready for the next “Day excursion to Berlin.” I have one consolation, and that is I killed two Uhlans and wounded one before they captured me: A Trooper of the Dragoon Guards . All Smiles! Much amusement was caused during yesterday afternoon by some remarkable legends chalked up on some transport wagons passing through. Such sentences as “This way to Berlin!” “Kaiser killers,” “Kaiser’s coffin,” “Vive la France!” and sundry other information marked up in chalk by the dusty, but jovial travellers, caused people to stop and smile: Lance-Corpl. F. E. Hunt, Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry . The Pot Boiling I am very well; plenty to eat, and tobacco. We are in action in a wood, guns nicely under cover, and we shall be, too, shortly, for it is getting dark. We have made snug little shelters for ourselves, and are quite “comfy.” The pot is on the fire, and it won’t be long before we have a good feed. I hope to be home for Christmas dinner, so have a good spread: Bombdr. Earp, Royal Artillery . The Old Horse I came down to the rest camp with others to get a fresh horse. My old horse was shot under me. I was sorry, too, for he was a splendid animal, and it is solely due to him that I am alive to write this letter. We had to make a run for it, and I can tell you that those with slow horses did not get far. Things are going very well indeed with us now, although they are about five, and in some cases twenty, to one. But we can generally manage to thrash them: Corpl. R. Greenwood, 18th Hussars . No More Collecting I have given up collecting pieces of shells for souvenirs, having found myself a veritable Krupp’s scrap heap. Spies seem to be the chief excitement here, and the old motto has been altered to read, “Catch that spy!” Two days ago a haystack was found in the interior of which was a complete telegraph office working by underground cable to the German lines, and thus the Germans were kept acquainted with our movements and the disposition of our artillery: A Telegraphist, 1st Army Headquarters . Worthy of Tom Brown Another chap tried to get some bread at a farm. After he had made all sorts of queer signs the woman seemed to understand, and said, “Oui, oui, M’sieur,” rushed back into the house and brought back a bundle of hay! There was a terrific roar of laughter from the troops. The nonplussed look on the woman’s face and the “fed-up” expression on the chap’s made a picture worthy of the pencil of poor old Tom Brown: Bombdr. E. Cressy, Royal Field Artillery . Wonderfully Popular The troops are wonderfully popular, and I think a lot of it is due to their kindliness to the kiddies and animals, and also to their unbounded enthusiasm and good spirits. There’s no grousing, and there is nothing but what fun is made of. No one has seen the soldier at his best unless he has seen him here. Grimy, unshaved, his khaki full of grease marks, and tired out, yet full of life and fun, his sole luxury a good wash—grub, sleep, everything goes to blazes if there’s water to be had for a wash, but, good Lord, you should see our towels: A Sergeant of the Army Service Corps . Messing Together Every day we receive jam, bacon or ham, bread, tinned meat (commonly known as bully-beef), biscuits, and cheese. We do not get a lot, but enough to keep us in trim and free from want. We also get plenty of dry tea and sugar. It is quite amusing at first to see the lads making their tea, a thing they are doing all day long. On this game the boys generally get together in groups of sixes, draw their rations in bulk, and mess together. You ought to see their cooking utensils. They use water-cans, pails, in fact, anything that holds a decent amount of water: Sergt. Clark, Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry . “Merry and Bright” I see you are all excited about getting us plenty of socks, but Heaven only knows when we shall get a chance to wear them. I haven’t been out of my boots for a fortnight. It would be much more to the point if you were to send us men to give the Germans “socks.” “Merry and bright” is still our motto. Don’t get downhearted, no matter what you hear at home. Some of these days things will come all right. Keep your eyes wide open, and you will have a big surprise sooner than you think. We’re all right, and the Germans will find that out sooner than you at home: Private J. Willis . Next, Please! I have never seen our lads so cheery as they are under great trials. You couldn’t help being proud of them if you saw them lying in the trenches cracking jokes or smoking while they take pot-shots at the Germans.... We have very little spare time now, but what we have we pass by smoking concerts, sing-songs, and story-telling. Sometimes we have football for a change, with a German helmet for a ball, and to pass the time in the trenches have invented the game of guessing where the next German shell will drop. Sometimes we have bets on it, and the man who guesses correctly the greatest number of times takes the stakes: Sapper Bradle . That “Interest” We are at present living in a school, and it seems funny to see so many soldiers’ beds on the floor. Our bedding (don’t laugh) is one waterproof sheet and our coat for a blanket; and still we are all as happy as sand-boys. We have been here some time now enjoying a rest, and at the same time getting fitted out again for the front. As you can imagine by reading the papers, nearly everything we had—horses, carts, wagons, cookers, and Maxims—were all blown in the air by German shells, but I am thankful to say we have got over all that, and shan’t forget to pay out Johnnie German with interest the first time we have the luck to meet him again, which we all hope won’t be long, as the sooner they are crushed the sooner we will get home again: A Private of Keith, N.B. Sad and Glad I am having a very interesting but a jolly hard time. About fourteen days ago I was chased four miles by German Lancers. They were on horses, and I was on my machine. The road was so bad they nearly had me, but I stuck to it and got away. It has been raining “cats and dogs” the last three days, and I am wet through, but happy and contented and very well. I shall have loads to tell you when I get home—tales, I fear, of pain, rapine, suffering, and all the horrors of a great war; but all the same I have some funny experiences to relate as well: Special Dispatch-Rider A. R. Gurney . Unexpected! On the Marne we spent two days on a long mine out towards the German lines, and just when we were getting to the close of our job we heard pickaxes going as fast and as hard as you like, and then the wall of clay before us gave way, showing a party of Germans at the same game! You never saw men more astonished in your life. “Fancy meeting you,” was written all over their faces, and they hadn’t quite recovered from their shock when we pounced on them. We had a pretty sharp scrap down there indeed, but we got the best of it, though we had four of our chaps laid out. One German devil was just caught in time with a fuse which he was going to apply with the mad idea of blowing us all up! Sapper T. Gilhooly, Royal Engineers . Tempting Grapes In the last fight we were posted near to a wall over which hung the most tempting grapes you ever set eyes on. When you’ve lain for nearly a day in a hot sun without bite or sup, grapes seem more tempting than ever. Though the Germans seemed to concentrate their whole fire on the corner where those grapes were, most of us couldn’t resist the temptation and risk of stealing out to get them. What you had to do was to crawl along the top of the trenches like a big snail, and then, when you got there, make a big spring up and catch what you could before the German shots caught you. We weren’t always successful, and there’s many a lad of ours owes his life or his wounds to touching that forbidden fruit: An Irish Guardsman . “Our Menu!” We were on a convoy of ammunition and food, and had to go about 150 miles. We had got seventy odd miles, when we were sighted by Uhlans. There were about 100 of them, and fifty of our men, and we got in a very bad position, but we got out with the loss of a few drivers, and we never lost any of our convoy. This is our menu: Monday: breakfast, eggs; dinner, roast beef; tea, cake; supper, fish. Tuesday: breakfast, eggs; dinner, roast beef; tea, cake; supper, eels. Wednesday: breakfast, steak; dinner, rabbit; tea, biscuits; supper, eels. Thursday: breakfast, liver; dinner, pork; tea, kippers; supper, stew. Friday: breakfast, beef; dinner, ham; tea, jam; supper, stew. Saturday: breakfast, bacon; dinner, rabbit; tea, ducks; supper, eggs. Sunday: breakfast, eggs and bacon; dinner, roast beef; tea, tea. After Sunday tea we all go to the pictures (I don’t think): Driver Ellis, Army Service Corps . Trust Thomas! We were all of us hungry yesterday. To-day I have been out about a mile and have returned with some carrots, onions, and potatoes. These have been peeled, cut up, and are now boiling in a pail with six tins of corned beef added. A feed is what we contemplate, and a feed we will have. We are all looking forward to a profound gorge, and I, for one, have moist lips at thought of the meal within a commandeered pail! But the bucket of stew is done! It’s fine! Excellent!! Yes! All that because it is rare on campaigns such as this. We very seldom see a cooked meal. It is usually bread and biscuit, tinned beef or tinned jam, bacon or cheese. Trust Thomas Atkins to look after himself, as you trust him to break the back of Kaiserism: Pte. A. E. Basham, Bedfordshire Regiment . Night Duty You ask me what night duty in a surgical ward on active service is like. Well, imagine a huge square room, holding fifty beds, at present occupied by thirty-three patients, the rest having been sent to the base hospital for convalescents. We mount duty at 8 o’clock, and finish at 7 A.M. next morning. Our work during the night consists of attending to their personal wants, such as—one would like a drink of hot milk, another cannot sleep, he is in pain—a shrapnel wound in the thigh, and, unfortunately, he cannot turn over. So you have to look at the dressing, see that everything is O.K., start a bit of a yarn about anything, until he or you get fed up. Get him a drink, and, in all probability, the next time you have a look at him he is asleep: A Hospital Orderly . Sea Echoes We get now and again odd stories of what our tars are doing, and we were mighty pleased over that dust-up in the North Sea. We kept singing “Boys of the Bulldog Breed” till we thought our throats would crack, and it was taken up all along the line by our men. It’s not so risky as you would think on the battlefield. We were under heavy fire for two days before one of us was hit; I know other regiments had similar experiences. You’re all right so long as you keep under cover, but where the losses come in is when you have to retire with all those fiendish guns blazing away at you in the open. Then you can’t help being hit, and there’s always their cavalry to look out for, though it isn’t of much account against men with the bayonet. They have more than they know what to do with, and they’re always turning up where they’re least expected: Corporal W. Johnson . The Motor-Man There are two of us in charge of each motor, because the roads being very bad our hands and wrists get awfully tired holding the wheel, and we relieve each other. Ours is most important work, for it has been said an army marches on its stomach—that is to say, an army is not much use if it is hungry; therefore, if I have food wagons attached to my motor I must be on the spot when wanted—with ammunition it is just the same, of course. When our ammunition wagons get empty other full ones are brought up and ours are filled. We never go back to fetch anything; so it is the fighting line all the time. When the battle is over—and some of them have been very long, lasting over days and days—we get what rest and sleep we can, and have a sound meal. If we have been fortunate enough we have had sundry naps during lulls in the fighting, and have been able to get our food in the same manner: A Salvationist Motor man, Royal Field Artillery . An Interpreter I now coil myself up in the “O.P.” corner of the stage of the municipal theatre. It is curious to see by the dim light of the pilot lights forty or fifty men sleeping on the boards with their rifles stacked between them. The curtain is up, but the auditorium is dark and empty, for what is probably the most realistic and interesting scene that has ever been set between its proscenium. I am surrounded by a crowd of French people of every age and of all shapes and sizes. The fact that I am writing a letter seems to strike them as an incident of extraordinary interest. “Here’s one writing a letter,” they call to their friends, and they all flock round. The people of this town press round us when we feed, sleep, wash, dress, and, in fact, at every moment of the day. Until we were quartered in the theatre some of the more modest soldiers were compelled to wait till it was dark before they could summon up sufficient courage to change their clothes. One old lady has just come up and tested the quality of the material of my tunic and has moved off nodding her head in approbation. Their interest in our welfare is practical, nevertheless: Pte. F. J. St. Aubyn, Interpreter . A Proper Adventure We saw a small body of Germans, and, having nothing better to do, we were told to go and capture them. There were thirty, and they all gave in except one, who made a rush for it right back past our convoy. Two of us went after him. The men on the lorries fired, but they were afraid of hitting us. He led us through the village, and turned up a back lane into a sort of builder’s yard. In that yard was a pit of soft lime, and we were all running so fast that we did not see it. It looked like sand. In he falls. I am following; in I goes; can’t stop in time; up to our waists. This bloke makes a grab at me; we have a struggle; we are going in further, gun and all. The other man is shouting, “Why don’t you shoot him?” but I couldn’t. The barrel was choked with lime. Then he spit in my face. That done it. I hit him just a tap with the butt end of my rifle on the napper, and down he went. Meanwhile my pal had gone for help. They fetched planks, ladders, and all sorts of things. At last they pulled me out by sticking my head and shoulders through the rungs. You should have seen me when I did get out—a very pretty sight. When the women saw me they tore all the things off me and threw pails of water over me and thoroughly dowsed me. One woman gave me an old skirt to put on, and I marched back like that. As far as I know, that “sausage” is there now, as he did not wake up after that tap for luck: An Infantry Private . “Culture” for Them The Germans are great on night attacks, but they soon found out that they had to be out very early if they wanted to catch us napping. One night we got a hint that something might be looked for, so we made preparations to give them a very nice reception when they paid their early morning call. Strong parties of picked shots were thrown out all along the line towards the German trenches and their orders were to lie in wait until the Germans came up to drive back the pickets. Just when we were getting impatient and wanting to shout, “Hurry up! Hurry up!” like they do in the music halls when the turns are slow at coming on, rifles began to crack in front, and the pickets fell back more quickly than usual. That was our chance. The Germans came on like the great big brave chaps they are when they’re twenty to one, and we let them come until the head of their force was level with a tree that had been marked for range. “Now!” the officer in command whispered, and we gave it them right where they carry their rations after dinner. We poured another volley into them, and then went after them with the bayonets. They beat us easily in the sprinting; besides, we had orders not to venture too far from camp, so we came back and lay down to wait for the next turn. They came back again, and when they got to the tree they stopped to look around. They got the same old sauce as before, and they were off again. The entertainment wasn’t altogether over, for half an hour later a big body of Germans falling back from another little surprise on our left walked right into us. We blazed right into them, and they didn’t wait to ask what sort of culture it was that made it possible to grow rifles in the wood at night-time: A Lance-Corporal of the East Yorkshire Regiment . Cooking no Joke I daresay you wonder how we go on about our cooking. When we were in column we had a cook for every sub-section. Every evening, or when we arrived at our billet, rations were drawn. A sub-section of forty men would draw about eight to twelve pounds of cheese, nine or ten pounds of bacon, about one and a half to two pounds of tea, two to three pounds of sugar, and, if there was bread, about sixteen loaves, each weighing about two pounds, or two 56 lb. boxes of biscuits, forty tins of bully beef, or twenty-eight pounds of fresh meat. I cooked for three weeks, and I can assure you it is no joke to be cook to forty men and not know much about the work. I will give an idea of a day’s work as cook. We had as a rule réveillé at 3 A.M. or 4 A.M. I would get up half an hour earlier and start the fire. The water would boil within twenty minutes, and I put the tea and sugar in. The men would afterwards use the fire themselves for frying. Directly breakfast was over I filled the dixies again and kept them ready for dinner. Some of the fellows would come in and would peel potatoes and carrots. I cut the meat up, or, if there was no fresh meat, I opened tins of bully beef as a substitute. I put this on the fire two or three hours before dinner so as to ensure it being done properly. In the afternoon rations were drawn. I had to cut them up, and it wants some judgment to cut a small piece of bacon or cheese for forty hungry men. But it was always done somehow. Tea was ready from four to five o’clock. Milk was got where possible, in addition to eggs and butter. I was fed up with it after three weeks and handed it over. It is different in the battery I am in here. The corporal draws the rations and cuts them up. We generally have bacon for breakfast. We fry it in our saucepan together and soak the bread in the fat; it goes down good: Gunner Southern, Royal Horse Artillery .

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