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.

Not Good Shots

You have read about their famous Uhlans. They are worth nothing. When we have come close to them they have always turned round. We are just wanting to get them to charge. They are very hard to tell from a distance because they are very much like ourselves. I am just getting settled down to it now. If the Germans were good shots I would not be writing to you now, but I must say their artillery fire is very hot. It is that which has found most of our fellows. The people here can’t do enough for us. They simply go mad when they see us: A Trooper of the 9th Lancers.

Adam without an Eden

I got made prisoner along with Sergeant-Major H—— of ours. We did not think we should ever see England again, as they made us strip every mortal stitch off our bodies so that we could not escape. At the time they were being hardly pressed by our troops. But in the middle of the night we made a cut for it. We got away, and after wandering about absolutely naked, not even a fig-leaf (a lifetime it seemed, but really about a couple of hours), we fell in amongst a French division of infantry, and they clothed and fed us in no time and put us on the right way: A Trooper of the Dragoon Guards.

The Enviable “Terriers”

I read in one of the papers that some of the “Terriers” in England have to put up with the inconvenience of sleeping three in one bed. I feel sorry for them. Some of us would be glad to get a bundle of straw sometimes. There is one thing, up to the present, we have been having plenty of grub and a tot of rum nearly every night, which no doubt you will guess we refuse. We get tobacco issued to us, but are very short of fag-papers. A couple of packets would come in very handy: Gunner Richards, Royal Artillery.

Pea-shooters

At one place we had a surprise attack. We were just getting ready for some food, when all of a sudden shells started bursting around us. I can tell you it was a case of being up and doing. Dixies and tea-cans were flung on one side, our tea spilt, fires put out, and the order given to stand to our guns and horses, everyone to prepare for action. Still, we were not to be caught napping. Our boys only close one eye when we get a chance of a sleep, so you can tell we were wide-awake by the fact that it was a case of do or die. Our gallant boys, the Guards, held them at bay until our death-dealing pea-shooters put them to flight: Driver Clark, Royal Artillery.

Had “To Nip”

Two Germans had a pop at me one day when I was crossing a ploughed field, but they might as well have tried to shoot the moon. I have had some narrow escapes from shells—they were German shells, or I should not be writing this now. We laugh at them sometimes. The Germans don’t like steel—although we have not done much in that line. We play on a different line to that. We like to catch ’em napping, and we have done it, too, but, of course, they have had our fellows the same. It would make you laugh to see how we dodge the shells and nip under cover for all we are worth. We had to scatter one night just when I was making some tea. I was just going to put the tea and sugar into the boiling water when bang they came just overhead, and I had to nip: Corpl. Newman, Somerset Light Infantry.

“Fairly Well”

While I am writing this letter I am cooking the dinner, boiling a piece of bacon we managed to get and potatoes. I have been elected cook on our car. I expect you will say it is just like me to be among the grub. Anyway, we are getting plenty of it now. We get our day’s rations every morning—one rasher of bacon, one tin of bully beef, one pot of jam (between five), a piece of cheese, so much tea and sugar, and so much bread, when we can get it; if we have not bread we get biscuits. We get plenty of potatoes out of the fields, and sometimes make what we call bully-beef stew. It is very nice, and consists of bully beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions—all boiled together. Sometimes we get fresh meat, so you see we are living fairly well: Pte. Calvert, Army Service Corps.

Rained on

We struck our tents this afternoon and then the rain came down. It is eight o’clock now and the rain is still steadily driving down. I suppose you imagine that you can picture the discomfort, but I bet you can’t. As a help, however, I will give you a few details. We have had to erect the tent in the pouring rain, which means that the floor-boards are soaked, and each one has to find a little dry oasis for himself, and there aren’t many dry places left when nine fellows have to be crowded in. Now the tent-cloth is soaked through and little streams of water are trickling across the floor, while miniature cascades are dancing merrily down the walls: Lance-Corpl. J. W. James, Royal Fusiliers.

Quagmires and “Mug Racks”

A German device that is new to me is the making of quagmires in front of the trenches, usually by digging extra trenches a few hundred feet from the real ones, throwing in the loose clay, and then flooding them so that you get a ditch of liquid mud. One day a French infantry detachment was advancing finely against the German position until they stumbled into one of these bogs, and just as they were stuck fast they were treated to a hail of fire. Barbed-wire entanglements are ten times worse than what we found in South Africa. Usually they are hidden away in the long grass, and you don’t see them until they catch you in the legs and bring you down. However, we’re getting up to the dodge. Now we call the wires “mug racks,” because it’s only the “mugs” who get caught in them: A Private of a Scots Regiment.

Cave-dwellers

We are like brigands at large in a cave, but one thing spoils it—that is, these blooming shells. The guns are only from six to eighteen hundred yards off, but we cannot see them on account of their being like ours, so cleverly concealed, and our aeroplanes cannot find them, although if they go over it is ten to one they are heavily fired at, but with them being so high it is impossible to see anything. We, the machine gunners, are rather lucky, as we draw our rations from the cooker where they are at present in the village, and then take them to our house that we have, and where the corporal in charge of the limber stays. He acts as cook, and we have bully stews, marrows, walnuts, turnips, and different things, and plenty of potatoes: Pte. H. Tesseyman, Coldstream Guards.

Contour Maps

It is my opinion, although, of course, I have no authority for it, that the German artillery have been supplied with contour maps of the route to Paris, with the ranges marked from hill to hill. Directly they reached an incline and faced us on another they let fly right on top of us straight away. They certainly had not time to find the range by the ordinary methods. I was wounded by a bullet from a shrapnel. It is very poor stuff, and very ineffective. The bullet that hit me ought ordinarily to have gone right through my hand. I lay for about an hour and a half on some corn, with the shrapnel bursting over me all the time. The bullets were absolutely spent, and when they dropped on my clothes they only singed them; others I stopped with my hands as they fell: Quartermaster-Sergt. Hinton, 17th Batt. Royal Field Artillery.

A Disturbed Dinner

Two days ago, our troop, consisting of twenty-eight men, was billeted in a farmyard. We were trying our best to make up a bit of a dinner by collecting potatoes, carrots, etc., when a shell struck the roof of the building and set it on fire. Fortunately the only casualty was a wounded horse, although several of the men got shaken up a bit. The only thing that worried us was that we lost our dinners, because I can tell you we had to get out of it quickly—it was a bit too warm for Tommy Atkins. The country here is thick with woods, which makes it very dangerous for cavalrymen. We are fighting side by side with the French troops and we get on very well together. Lots of them speak good English: Pte. Martin, 16th Lancers.

Petrol Power

The war is a petrol war. Every thing is done by machinery, and victory is to the man who has the most petrol. One is much impressed by this. The aeroplanes have by now rendered ordinary scouts obsolete. They go ahead of us and find out everything about the Germans. One hears the hum of their engines daily. It was quite exciting at one place when three of our planes chased a very fast German one. One of our fellows put a bullet through his petrol tank, forced him to come down, and made him prisoner. We make war in a most extraordinary way nowadays. The other day —— and I met at headquarters and had a cup of tea together during an hour I had off. He said he felt mischievous and would love to have a go at some Uhlan patrols who were only about a dozen miles off. So he jumped into his car and drove off. A few hours later he returned to have a first-class dinner at an hotel near headquarters, having killed a Uhlan and nearly taken two more prisoners: A Dispatch-Rider.

“Crackers!”

I expect the Germans thought they had a snip. Their army is very poorly looked after. You can’t help feeling sorry for some of the poor beggars—they are almost starved to death, and give themselves up in scores. This war is nothing but an artillery duel, and the country for miles is very wooded, which makes it harder for us, because we cannot see them till we are almost on top of them, and then they have first plonk at us. The Kaiser’s crack regiment, the Prussian Guards, went crackers before we were out a fortnight. There was a pretty dust-up. We caught them coming across an open field. We let them come within 200 yards of us, and then we let go. We almost wiped them clean out. It was an awful sight when we finished. Those who weren’t killed ran for their lives. I expect they are in Berlin by now: Private R. Homewood.

A Near Shave

I was out with the Austin car convoying three motor-lorries with supplies for a cavalry brigade, when we were pounced upon by a bunch of German cavalry, who took us prisoners, and took everything I had except the clothes I was wearing. All our men, twenty in number, including an officer, were put back to a wall and kept there with an armed guard. I was made to turn the motor round. They put eight Germans in the car, and I had an officer with a revolver pointing at my head standing on the step. They then made me reconnoitre the villages for two hours, looking for the positions of the British troops, which they did not find, but they went mighty close at one time. Upon returning to the same spot we were put in the middle of a line of German cavalry, about 6000 strong, and taken up a steep hill to a plateau on top. As soon as it became daylight they were spotted by our cavalry and artillery, who made short work of them; but they kept us right in their fighting line to the very last, when they bolted and left us: Private H. L. Simmons, of Addlestone.

“Poor Old Bones!”

I look an awful picture. My clothing is torn to shreds. I have lost all my buttons, and it is dreadful cold at nights, but I cuddle up against the horses for warmth. Our horses are terrified, mad, but my two seem a bit at ease when I lie down beside them at night. If I leave them for a minute there is no pacifying them. You would die of laughing if you saw me now. I am writing this across the horse’s belly. He is too tired to rise, but he gives me such knowing looks at times. He is a proper chum. He is a grey, and you should see the mess I have made trying to discolour him. He has tar mixed with moss rubbed over him. Every kind of dust and dirt I could get has been rubbed on him. I have to laugh when I look at him, and the officer this morning nearly had a fit. Of course, there is a humorous side to everything. We would never live if there wasn’t. The noise is deafening. You can’t hear your mate speak unless he shouts in your ear. The bursting of the shells is appalling, but poor old “bones” lies here as if he was in the stable at home. He is dead beat, and so am I, but there is no actual rest here; it is only a lull: A Private of the Scots Greys.