Horace Annesley Vachell.

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.