A. H. Clough.

Darling,—I am now lying in a forest with my leg shot off, and don’t know when the ambulance will turn up. It’s awful. I hope I shall see you again. Love to baby and all: Jack.

Invaded!

People at home can’t realize what it means to have their country invaded. Inoffensive people are sitting in their homes, when, without the slightest warning, away comes death and destruction in the shape of artillery shells from an enemy that doesn’t know the meaning of the first letter of fairplay: Pte. E. Bush, The Buffs.

Better Dead!

A live shell burst and hit one poor fellow in the lower part of the body. I asked him if I could do anything for him, and he said, “Yes; have you got a rifle?” “Yes,” I said. “Well,” he said, “for God’s sake shoot me out of my misery.” I told him I could not do that, so I gave him water: Pte. F. Bruce, Suffolk Regiment.

Of Wife and Child

In our trenches on the Aisne after a hard fight we found one of the Gloucesters with an unfinished letter in his hand. It was written to his wife and little girl. It spoke hopefully of the future, and said, “Tell Annie I will be home in time to make her Christmas tree.” He never got further, for a German shell had laid him out: A Seaforth Highlander.

Loot!

The looting has been awful; beautiful homes broken up, and articles of clothing, household linen, pictures, and furniture smashed to atoms and trodden under foot. They took away the wines, for on our advance up country the numerous German camps were strewn with bottles, articles of equipment, and other things too numerous to mention. They leave their killed by the side of the roads, and in the streets of villages—anywhere, in fact: Sergt.-Major H. Attree, 18th Hussars.

The Roll call

The horrors of war can only be imagined; yet we seem to get used to them. It seems callous to me, but after the battle we have roll-call. The sergeant calls out the names. Perhaps the first one he calls is missing. Nobody knows where he is. The next one is called, and somebody says, “I saw him shot.” The sergeant puts him down as “shot” or “wounded.” Nobody comments or says anything: Corporal R. W. Crow, Royal Engineers.

Reading Ruskin

I came on a wounded man of the Lancashire Fusiliers one day. He had two ghastly wounds in his breast, and I fancy he was booked through. He was quietly reading a little edition of Ruskin’s “Crown of Wild Olive,” and seemed to be enjoying it immensely. As I chatted with him for a few minutes he told me that this little book had been his companion all through and that when he died he wanted it to be buried with him. His end came next day, and we buried the book with him: A Sergeant of the Fifth Lancers.

“All Right!”

After being under the deadliest of shell fire for eight days I was hit, but, thank God, no bones broken. I shall never forget my poor chum. He had his leg broken with the bone sticking out, and also a great gash in the thigh. But the one glorious thing about it is, as soon as we realized we were hit, we joined in prayer to our Father, after which we helped one another to bandage ourselves up. I haven’t seen him since they carried us out of the trenches, but I am sure he is all right: Pte. W. Marshall, 1st Devonshire Regiment.

Keepsakes!

The shortest will I have ever heard of was made one night by a chap of the Royal Scots. He was bowled over in a rush at the German trenches, and, with what must have been his dying breath, he shouted after his chum, “Jock, ye can hae ma fags.” Later we came on him dead, and Jock got the fags all right in his breast pocket; but I don’t think he would part with them if he wanted a smoke ever so, and none of us would have asked him to do it: A Cameron Highlander.

Nellie’s Anxiety

I suppose Nellie is very anxious over me, but tell her I am going on grand, and am delighted I am living and able to use my rifle. As long as I can account for a German life every time I get the chance, that is all I care about, and every other British soldier is just the same. It is marvellous the pluck of our officers; they would face anything, and where they go we follow them, and would follow them anywhere. We have a lot of our officers killed; and it is a pity, poor fellows, for they are brave men. When we get close to the Germans they run like hell from our rifle fire, and then we get a grand chance at them: Sergt. E. F. Eagar, Royal Irish Regiment.

The Dog It Was!

There was a big, awkward, gawky lad of the Camerons who took a fancy to a Scotch collie that had followed us about a lot, and one day the dog got left behind when we were falling back. The big lad was terribly upset, and went back to look for it. He found it, and was trudging along with it in his arms, making forced marches to overtake us, when he fell in with a party of Uhlans on the prowl. He and his dog fought their best, but they hadn’t a chance, and both were killed: A Private of the Highland Light Infantry.

The Trail of the Sword

It is a shame to see the lovely homes that have been deserted, the people trekking along the roads with any belongings they can manage to carry with them or wheel on barrows, and women with little babies in arms flying for their lives, and perhaps an old mother being helped along behind. These sights make lumps come in your throat, and make you think what it would be if a similar thing were to happen at home. When we first came here we went right through into Belgium, and as we were retiring the Germans were setting fire to all villages. It was a common thing to see two or three villages alight at the same time: A British Gunner.

His Loved Ones

Just as he was going into battle a man of the Staffordshire Regiment received a letter announcing the sudden death of his wife and baby daughter. There was no time for tears or vain regrets, and he had to go into the fight with his heart stricken with that terrible grief. In the fighting he acquitted himself like a hero, and just as we were retiring he received a mortal wound. I offered a word of sympathy, but he would not hear of it. “Never mind,” he said, “I’m booked through; but I have sent a few Germans before; and, anyhow, I am going to see the ones I love”: A Sergeant of the 9th Lancers.

Vultures

We came on a German who had been pinned down under a gun-carriage that had to be abandoned. He could not extricate himself, and he simply had to lie there with two loathsome vultures waiting to nibble at him when the last spark of life had gone. He was relieved when we found him, for you can imagine it’s not nice to see these awful creatures waiting to make a meal of you. Whenever we see them we kill them, but they are always hovering about the battlefields, and they always follow our men on the march. Some instinct seems to tell them when to expect dead men. They are terribly afraid of the aeroplanes, and when the machines are up vultures clear out of the way: Pte. T. R. Morgan, Royal Field Artillery.

A Song of Death

I am a bit down in the mouth over a thing that happened last night. We had a bit of a sing-song and smoker to mark the arrival in camp of a couple of boxes of cigarettes. My best chum, the one I have told you about so often, was called on for a song, and, just as he took his fag out of his mouth to oblige, a shell dropped into us, and he was badly wounded on the side and in the head. “I’m done for, George,” was all he had time to say, and off he went. He was a fine chum. No man ever had better, and we were all cut up about it. He had a wife and four children at home. God only knows what will become of them now: A Sergeant of the 1st Division Staff.

No More Cold Trenches

There was a chap of the Berkshires who, like many more of us, had ’listed after a row with his girl. At the crossing of the Aisne he got hit, and he had just breath enough to tell me the name of the girl, and ask me to write to her. “Tell her,” he said, “I’m sorry we had that row, but it was for the best, for if we hadn’t had it I should not have been able to do my bit for my country. It seems awfully hard that I can never see her again to explain things to her, but I’m sure she will think better of me now than if I had been one of the stay-at-homes. Good-bye, old chap; there’ll be no more cold nights in the trenches for me, anyhow”: A Private of the Leicestershire Regiment.

A Lady’s Handkerchief

I found myself mixed up with a French regiment on the right. I wanted to go forward with them, but the officer in charge shook his head and smiled. “They will spot you in your khaki and put you out in no time,” he said in English; “make your way to the left; you’ll find your fellows on that hill.” I watched the regiment till it disappeared; then I made my way across a field and up a big avenue of trees. The shells were whistling overhead, but there was nothing to be afraid of. Half-way up the avenue there was a German lancer officer lying dead by the side of the road. How he got there was a mystery because we had seen no cavalry. But there he lay, and someone had crossed his hands on his breast and put a little celluloid crucifix in his hands. Over his face was a beautiful little handkerchief—a lady’s—with a lace edging. It was a bit of a mystery because there wasn’t a lady for miles that I knew of: A British Infantryman.

All Gone

Letters have just arrived. How sad that the men cannot have them. We call the names out, but there is no answer. They perhaps know in heaven. Old England, when she hears about the battle, will be proud of us. The Germans were ten to one, and we outfought them. I have lost nearly all my best chums, and have seen some terrible sights. My pack was blown from my back, my cap was taken away, and a bullet or shell stripped my trousers from my thigh to the knee. Our colonel and nearly all the officers are gone. One chap in my company, only eighteen and a half years, had both legs blown away. The sergeant you shook hands with, ——, has gone: Sergt. Roberts, Loyal Lancashires.

Fired!

One night we spent in a pretty old village, where the people were very hospitable. They made some of us a bed on a cottage floor, and gave us food. Said good-bye and left about 5 A.M. A few hours later we looked back and saw the flames of the place mounting to the sky. Fired by the enemy, was the fate of that village and many more for giving our troops shelter for a night. Have seen thousands of refugees on the roads flying from the enemy, carrying all their worldly possessions on their backs. One sees many sad sights of this nature. Women tramping wearily along, sobbing with terror at the booming of the great guns and the distant glare of blazing homesteads. We have also seen hundreds of German prisoners, mostly looking “fed up.” Tried to have a chat with one the other morning, but owing to our respective knowledge of English and German being limited, conversation was ditto. Have just been told it’s Sunday to-day. Had quite lost count, as all days seem much alike: Corpl. F. W. Street, R.E.

One Taken!

With Tom Caisley on one side and Joe Fair on the other I was hopping along, with the shells bursting all around us. My strength was going, when I turned to Tom and said, “I’m beat, Tom,” but he answered, “Stick it, son.” I shall never forget his words, and I did “stick it,” till he saw two fellows with a stretcher and called them over. I was put on the stretcher and shook hands with Tom and Joe, wishing them good-bye. Then they went back to the firing line, and I was taken to a cave, where I had my leg dressed; the bullet had gone right through the thigh. I had only been in this place about half an hour when a chap called Nicholson was brought in wounded, and I asked him if Tom and Joe were all right. He gave me a shock when he said Joe Fair had been killed while assisting him. I must confess that I cried, for Joe had been chums with Tom and me for years: Private Thomas Elliott.

A Dash for It

I met a man belonging to C Company of the Gordons who was bleeding very much. He shouted to me, “For God’s sake take me out of action.” I put him on a stretcher with the help of another bearer. We lifted him up, and just then a shell broke a tree in half close by. The trunk fell right across the man’s head, killing him at once. It was getting dusk and we could not find out where our company was, as they had retired fighting. I walked about the woods very quietly at night with three others and then heard some English voices. We looked ahead and saw a battery of artillery in a lane in front of us. They said they were ambushed between two lines of fire, and shouted, “Come, get a gun, and take pot luck with us.” We started, although twenty-four of the first team’s horses were shot, the middle driver was dead, and the one on the second leading horse was wounded in the head. We all decided to make a dash for it in the morning. We did so over dead horses and men and found our regiment at 3 A.M. In the meantime we had got some corn from the fields, but for three days we had nothing to eat and drink but apples, dirty water, and red wine: Bandsman T. Winstanley.

A Cave Disaster

I have had some experiences, but I think the saddest was the digging out of a number of men from a kind of subterranean passage or cave, which had fallen in and buried about thirty of the Camerons. The other night information was brought to the camp that the Cameron Highlanders had met with a disaster, and I was sent off immediately with a party of our chaps to go to their assistance. We were taken to a spot on a hillside, which reminded me of the caves of Cheddar, and which had been shelled. The turf and earth were thrown up in all directions as the result of a bombardment. There were several large and small caves, and one of them had been used as a hiding-place by the Camerons. No doubt this was spotted by the Germans, for they directed their guns on it, and it collapsed. The poor fellows were buried underneath many tons of earth. This happened early in the day, and although several attempts had been made to extricate the men, very little could be done, as the bursting of the shells on the same spot drove off the small rescue parties. I had to leave before the work was completed, but I helped to dig out two dead officers and several men. The position of these caves was well known to the Germans, for they had previously occupied them, and no doubt took a fiendish delight in smashing them up when they saw the Camerons take shelter in them: Sapper G. A. Bell, Royal Engineers.

An Irish Rifle

There was a young chap of the Irish Rifles. He was kneeling beside a wounded man of the Gloucester, keeping off the Germans, who were circling round like carrion birds. He had been hit himself, but was gamely firing at the enemy as fast as his wounded arm would permit. We went to his assistance, but they were both worn-out when we reached them, and, greatly to our regret, we had to leave them to be picked up by the Red Cross people. That was hard; but if you tried to pick up every wounded man you saw you wouldn’t be much use as a fighter, and as we were under urgent orders to take up a position from which to cover the retreat, we had no time for sentiment. They knew that, and they weren’t the men to ask us to risk the safety of the army for them. “Never mind,” the rifleman said, with a faint smile on a ghastly face, “the sisters will pick us up when it’s all over, but if they don’t, sure, then we’ve only got once to die, and it’s the grand fight we had, anyhow. What more could soldiers ask for?” When we came back again one of the men was there sure enough—stone dead; but his mate had gone, and whether it was the Germans or the Red Cross people that got him I wouldn’t care to say: A Trooper of the Irish Dragoons.

The Worst Part

I think the worst part of it all to bear is seeing the refugees; it breaks you up to see people too old to walk being pushed about in wheelbarrows and hand-carts. Let the Germans look out if the French and the Belgians get into Germany, for there will be the devil to pay, I bet. It would be hard to blame them, whatever they do, after what I have seen done to villages here.... The pepper is good stuff; I put some in my tea—it warms you up a treat: Bombardier Yorke, R.H.A.