Shakespeare.

Alfred Noyes.

There was a Frenchman hit by a shell, so me and “Smosh” got a stretcher and ran out and fetched him to safety, and the shells were bursting all around us. But we have been lucky enough to miss them up to now. It isn’t war out here; it’s murder: Pte. W. Commons, Royal Army Medical Corps.

Sniping!

The Germans have some very good snipers, but the Duke’s have better. We used to take it in turn to do sniping. It is just like going out rabbit-shooting. You see a German crawl out of his trench, up goes your rifle and over he rolls. Then you say, “That’s a bit of our own back for the way you have been treating the French people”: Sergt. Clark, Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.

The Bayonet!

One night after a very hard day in the trenches, when we were wet to the skin, we had lighted fires to dry our tunics, and were at it when we heard firing along our front, and then the Germans came at us like madmen. We had to tackle them in our shirt-sleeves. It was mainly bayonet work, and hard work at that: Corporal Casemont, Irish Fusiliers.

A Good Sleeper

There are six of the boys playing cards now, some are peeling spuds for dinner, the rest are having a sleep. We have a hole dug in a bank, and we only get in when the shrapnel gets a bit too close, to get out of sight of aeroplanes, and to sleep, night-times. My chum only wakes up grub-times and when he does guard: Corpl. H. Smith, King’s Royal Rifles.

Those Apples

We are living in trenches here, all merry and gay. We are being shelled by the enemy with shrapnel, but they are not doing much damage at present. There are apple-trees over our trench, and we have to wait till the Germans knock them down for us. You ought to see us scramble down our holes when we hear a shell coming: Private G. Caley, of Manor Park.

Four Feet Down

We are in a trench made by ourselves (patented), four feet down, and covered with sticks and straw, and are quite comfortable for a while, until we move again. We get plenty to eat, as there is any amount of vegetables growing around us, but bread is like gold, so we have to content ourselves with biscuits: Bandsman Ryan, Royal Irish Fusiliers.

Its Billet

My best chum was lying by my side, and we were firing shot after shot. Soon after dusk, when the firing was not so brisk, my chum asked me for a drink of water, and I had none. I asked, “Why, what’s the matter?” He replied, “I think I am dying.” I bound him up, but a quarter of an hour later he had gone: Private Pemberton.

Taking a German

One big wounded German cried out from the trench in which he laid to a R.A.M.C. man who was at work near by, “Take me from this hell. I will give you all my money.” In due course he was taken from the trench (grave, as it really was, because of the heaps of dead lying in it), and was finally removed to a place where I was lying: Bandsman Boyd, 2nd Welsh.

Another Rocket

We have been living the life of rabbits, for we burrowed ourselves in trenches, and here we remained for over fifty hours. It was an exciting and not unpleasant experience. The bursting of shells overhead was continuous, and it became monotonous. To the youngsters it was an awful experience in the earlier stages, but even they became so accustomed to the roar overhead that they raised a cheer each time shrapnel and shell spoke, making such remarks as “There’s another rocket, John”: Pte. C. Harris, West Kents.

Too Late!

The Germans don’t seem to care how much ammunition they waste. They kept blazing away for nine solid hours at a position which we had left the day before. When some of us visited the abandoned trenches after they had discovered their mistake we were astonished to find the ground covered with bullets that had done absolutely no damage. If it wasn’t for their artillery I really don’t know where they would be, for they are little use at any other form of fighting: Private Edward Strong.

Might Shake Hands

There are times when if you stuck your head out of a trench you could no more help being hit than you could expect to escape drops of rain if you went out on a wet day without an umbrella. You will not be able to see a German when darkness comes, but next morning you will find that the trenches have come so close, owing to the exertions of the two sides, that you could reach out of yours and shake hands with a German—that’s if you wanted to. When things get so close as that there’s nothing for it but to set to and shift the beggars a little further along: A Driver of the Royal Artillery.

A Football Talk

You musn’t run away with the idea that we all stand shivering or cowering under shell fire, for we don’t. We just go about our business in the usual way. If it’s potting at the Germans that is to the fore, we keep at it as though nothing were happening, and if we’re just having a wee bit of a chat among ourselves until the Germans come up, we keep at it all the same. When I got my wound in the leg it was because I got too excited in arguing with wee Geordie Ferris, of our company, about Queen’s Park Rangers and their chances this season: A Private of the Gordon Highlanders.

Feeling Led

As I write shells from heavy guns are whining overhead, and the roar from the gun’s mouth as well as the roar of shells exploding is behind and before. And (pause!) we are used to it! We are used to raining; used to going without washes for days; used to driving German columns back; used to mud, cold nights, and a terrific quantity of detail that varies from day to day. We have a knack of sticking to what we gain, and there you can feel proud of us all. For we ought to be swamped by superiority of numbers and guns. But our methods under fire are, if not perfect, very good. We are officered by excellent men, and we can feel led. You will understand: A Private of the Bedfordshire Regiment.

Walnuts and Guards

Out here I have seen the finest and saddest sights of my life. You see some amusing incidents as well. The Germans were shelling a field opposite to us for an unknown reason, for there were only a few dead cows there. Some of our chaps were getting walnuts, and the German shells were knocking walnuts down and the men were picking them up. During the first day of the battle here two of our companies were acting as right-flank guard to the brigade, and we encountered the Kaiser’s famous Prussian Guards. We were greatly outnumbered, and our commanding officer told us that we killed five of theirs to one of ours. They were finely built fellows and a great height: Lance-Corpl. J. Ryall, 1st King’s Royal Rifles.

Banging Away

When I opened your parcel we were banging away, and I thought how different a place it was tied up in. The fags—what a treat!—the chocolates, papers, and pipe. The last, by the way, is worth quids, for the troops have just had an issue of tobacco, and not many pipes are available; they get lost or broken. One thing we are short of, and that is matches. We all mark time on someone lighting up, and there’s a great rush on that one match: A Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.

All’s Fair!

They say all is fair in love and war, but it’s awful to see those deadly shells flying over our head and sometimes putting some of our pals out of action. But, thank God, the wounded are picked up as soon as possible, and treated with every care that both women and men nurses can provide. In fact, I have seen men who have been badly wounded with a smile on their faces as though nothing had happened, and even while I am writing these few words under difficulty our boys are laughing and joking and singing as if we were at a picnic, and I am sure they feel quite as happy as if they were at one in reality: Pte. B. Marshall, 1st Batt. Loyal North Lancashires.

Unnerving!

Every soldier knows that the first experience of being under fire is terribly unnerving, and the best of men will admit that at times they are tempted to run away. There was a young lad of the Worcestershire Regiment who had this feeling very badly, but he made up his mind that he would conquer it, and this is what he did: he made it a practice to go out of the trenches and expose himself to German fire for a bit every day. The poor boy trembled like a leaf, but his soul was bigger than the weak little body holding it, and he went through that terrible ordeal for a week: A Sergeant of the York and Lancaster Regiment.

Caps and Helmets

In the first lot of trenches our men put their caps and helmets on the top, to give the enemy the impression we were still there. Believing the trenches were actually occupied, the Germans shelled the position for three-quarters of an hour before their cavalry discovered the ruse. Meanwhile the men in the second trenches had also placed their helmets on top, but they did not go away, and the Germans, deceived, approached within a comparatively few yards, when they were met by a tremendous volley and practically wiped out: Pte. Shepherd, 1st Lincolnshire Regiment.

Spectral

I saw the German trenches as the French guns left them. They were filled with dead, but with dead in such postures as the world has never seen since the destroying angel passed above the Philistine camp in that avenging night of Scripture. It was as though some blight from Heaven had fallen upon them. There they stood in line, rifles to shoulder, a silent company of ghosts in the grey light of dawn. It was as if a deep and sudden sleep had overtaken them—only their eyes were open. They might have been there from all eternity thus, their rifles at rest: Anonymous.

Buried Alive

Have you any idea what a trench is like? It is simply a long cutting such as the gasmen make when laying pipes—about 5 ft. deep and 2 ft. wide. You are packed in, standing room only. No chance of a wash, or proper rest. They are supposed to shelter you from rifle shots and bits of bursting shell. Every day two or three are killed or wounded. There is another danger, too. I had an experience of it yesterday. A big shell burst in our trench, and two men and I were completely buried by the sides of the trench being blown in. It was an awful feeling being buried alive and slowly suffocating. I wished the shell had hit me, while I was underneath. Our chaps dug us out just in time, thank God: Sergt. Saward, Royal West Kent Regiment.

Cut and Thrust

The German trenches are marvellous. They are dug right into the ground, and you might walk over them for hours without guessing that there were men hidden away in them. The wonder is how they manage to fire at all from them, but I dare say they are quite effective against shell fire, and, what’s more important still, they make it very hard for our aeroplanes to spot the Germans and form any estimate of their strength. We are not one whit behind them in making trenches, and you might say that the whole fight out here is simply a matter of digging trenches right up so close that the other fellow has to run. It’s dull work, but it’s enlivened now and then by little fights by day and night, when the Germans rush out to surprise us or our generals think it well to push the enemy a little further back: A Corporal, at the Aisne.

Robinson Crusoe

I lost a few good chums. My ’listing chum was almost blown to pieces. He belonged to Newcastle, and was always laughing. He had to be buried under shell fire. We had many a good starving for water, food, and tobacco. Talking about tobacco, we had to smoke our tea. I smoked two tea allowances, and we had a tin box of tea leaves, which we took out of a kettle, drying it on our trench tops. Now a little about the trenches. Robinson Crusoe wasn’t in it. Our regiment was in them eight days without a hot drink, without a wash, shave, or a decent bit of food. We could not get stuff up there, as there was too much shell fire from the German side, and our transport could not get stuff up as the bridge over the Aisne was broken: Pte. Gray, Northumberland Fusiliers.

Swarms of Them

We had dug trenches and were waiting for something to happen when a German aeroplane came high over our lines. Then came a rain of shells from a wood. The enemy were about a mile and half away, but they got the range to a nicety. People who say that the German artillery fire is no good simply don’t know what they are talking about. I can only figure it out as being something worse than the mouth of hell. The Germans treated us to shell cross-fire, and a piece of shell hit my rifle—smash! I pitched forward in the trench, the muzzle part of the rifle went into my groin, and I got a lovely bang with another bit of shell across the leg. The Germans came out of the wood in swarms—just as if a hive had been overturned and all the bees were let loose. I thought my number was up: Private J. Stiles.

Moving!

We congratulated ourselves that we had got nice cover from which we could work with the rifle and for bayonet charges. At night we slept in the trenches, but at daybreak we were shelled out of them in practically no time. It was a bit of irony—such splendid trenches, and to be shelled out of them like that by the Germans. They watched us work, and then just let us have it lovely. It is no use saying the Germans are a “rotten lot” as fighters, because I think their artillery is very fine. German aeroplanes were on top of us, and found us out every time. They worked well, helping their troops and giving the guns the range: A Private of the 1st Cheshires.

Come On!

We had a whole day of it in the trenches with the Germans firing away at us all the time. It began just after breakfast, and we were without food of any kind until we had what you might call a dainty afternoon tea in the trenches under shell fire. The mugs were passed round with the biscuits and the “bully” as best we could by the mess orderlies, but it was hard work getting through without getting more than we wanted. My next-door neighbour, so to speak, got a shrapnel bullet in his tin, and another two doors off had his biscuit shot out of his hand. We are now ready for anything that comes our way, and nothing would please us better than a good big stand-up fight with the Germans on any ground they please: Private G. Ryder.

Brave Deeds

I am glad to see so many of our boys recommended for rewards of various kinds and mentioned in dispatches. What I fear is that one-tenth of the brave deeds done by men in the ordinary course of their duty will never be heard of. Many of the men themselves are so modest that they can’t bear the publicity associated with it, and I had a man come to me with tears in his eyes to beg me not to tell any officer what he had done. He was lying in the trenches one day with a mug of milk that he had brought from a farm under fire, when he noticed a wounded Dorset casting eyes at it. Though he was sorely in need of it himself, he got up and said, “You have it, old chap. I’ll get another.” Out he raced through the terrible storm of shot and shell, and came back again white as a sheet, with another mug in his trembling hand. He had been hit badly in coming back: A Sergeant of the Liverpool Regiment.

“Shifting Them!”

One morning, just about cockcrow, there was a fearful din outside our more or less private apartments in the trenches, where I had been snatching two winks after three days and nights’ hard. The Germans were on us, and two minutes after the alarm we were under fire. They had crept up very close under cover of darkness, and were in trenches not more than three hundred yards away. They must have driven out our chaps who were in them, and we got orders to retake the trenches. There was no fancy work about it. We were rushed forward in companies. One half of each company would rush forward for a few yards, about twenty, while the second half lay on the ground firing at the enemy. Then the first half would lie down and fire while the second took up the running. In that way we got to the trenches with very little loss, and commenced shifting them in the way our chaps always shift undesirables from any place we want. They were well entrenched, and it was like digging them out with the bayonets. We got them out in the end: A Corporal of the Durham Light Infantry.

Bullets and “Footer”

We are a light-hearted lot, and so are our officers. We dug out for them a kind of a subterranean mess-room, where they took their meals. One fellow decorated it with some cigarette cards and pictures he cut out of a French paper. The food they get is not exactly what would be supplied to them at the Hotel Cecil. A jollier and kinder lot you would not meet in a day’s march. One officer, who was well stocked with cigarettes, divided among his men, and we were able to repay him for his kindness by digging him out from his mess-room. A number of shells tore up the turf, and the roof and sides fell in like a castle built of cards, burying him and two others. They were in a nice pickle, but we got them out safe and sound. During the time we were in these trenches nearly 500 shells burst over and around us, but, as the protection was so good, not a single chap was killed, and less than a dozen were wounded. When we were able to get into the open air once more and stretch our legs, it was then we realized what we had been subjected to, for the ground was literally strewn with burst shells. If all goes well we are going to have a football match to-morrow, as I have selected a team from our lot to play the Borderers, who are always swanking what they can do: Pte. Harris, West Kent Regiment.

Gallant Frenchmen

In a little village near to Soissons, where I got my wound, there was a half-battalion of Frenchmen posted with some machine guns to hold a position, and their instructions were that they were not to yield an inch to the Germans no matter what happened. For two days and nights they fought their corner against ten times their own number of Germans, but on the third night the enemy concentrated all their spare guns on the village, and followed that up with a ferocious attack from all arms. The Frenchmen shot away till their arms ached, and their heads burned, and their throats were parched with thirst, and they were weak with hunger. They could not stop that ceaseless rush of Germans, who had orders to take the village or die. Step by step the French were forced back, and at last those left were driven into some farm buildings, where they took shelter. These were set on fire after a time, and the men, who would not surrender, had no other choice but to rush out and be shot down as they came. They did that, and next day we arrived to find the Germans in possession. We cleared them out after a hard fight, however, and helped to make things square: A Gunner of the Royal Artillery.

Hoist!

Quite the most awful thing I ever set eyes on was early one morning, close to Soissons. The Germans had taken up a position of great strategical value, and entrenched themselves so cleverly that nothing on earth seemed to shift them. They had got to be shifted, however, and, because we didn’t make any attempts to do it by direct attack, they got a bit “chesty,” and fancied themselves quite secure. All the while our engineers were feverishly at work night and day, carefully burrowing their way through the ground to where the Germans were. One morning everything was ready. We opened fire, and a feint was made against the position. The Germans stood to arms behind their trenches, and kept firing at us. We knew what was coming, and didn’t press too closely, but just at the appointed time there was a terrible roar in front, and a great big cloud of earth, stones, and the mangled limbs of men and horses shot up into the sky. The mine which our mud-larks had been preparing for so long had been sprung at last, and the German defenders of the trenches saw for themselves that it is not always the open foe that is to be feared most. For yards around that position the sight was a sickening one. Many of the defenders were torn limb from limb, and the cries of those who remained alive were awful. I never saw anything to equal it, except on one occasion when I was in a pit explosion in the North: A Corporal of the Coldstream Guards.

“One Red Burial Blent”

The Germans are getting up to all the tricks of the trade so far as making themselves secure against infantry or shell fire is concerned. At first they didn’t seem to mind what happened, and were always on the move just to walk over us, but when they found that it took two to make a bargain in the walking-over line they began to get more cautious, and now they get into holes in the ground that would make you think you had gone out rabbit-hunting if it weren’t for the size of the game when you catch them. Their trenches are mighty deep, and you can’t always say rightly what’s in them. There was a chap of the Warwicks who went peeping into one of these holes the other day, and before he knew what to think he found himself looking down the muzzle of a German rifle. He got out of the way with only a little nick in the arm, but he might have lost his life. They had the dickens of a job to ferret that German out of his place, but they did get him out, though it was only to put him in again, as he wouldn’t surrender, and his pit came in handy for a grave: Gunner Hughes, of the Royal Field Artillery.