A. C. Swinburne.

Sir F. H. Doyle’s “Private of the Buffs.”

We run a series of concerts each evening round a big camp fire, and I am always the first to start them off. There are three French girls who come down and sing for us, but they are not as good as you at singing: A Private of the A.M.C.

The Kilt

Most of the Highlanders are hit in the legs. It is because of tartan trews and hose, which are more visible at a distance than any other part of their dress. Bare calves also show up in sunlight: Private P. Barry.

Proper Officers

Our officers don’t grab the best for themselves like the German brutes. The other night, in the wet and cold—and it was really cold—three of our officers turned out of a snug big bedroom in a farm to make way for four of our privates who were done up with cold and fatigue: Pte. Watts, Cheshire Regiment.

Scented!

Soap is unknown out here, but luck had it that I found a German haversack the other day. It contained, amongst numerous useless things, two sticks of shaving soap (scented). Now all the troops are chipping me for using scented soap on active service. I don’t mind—it’s soap: Pte. Revis, 4th Middlesex Regiment.

Bottles All the Way

Some of the towns we passed through suggested that there had been a battle of bottles rather than a battle of bullets. The streets were thickly strewn with bottles, champagne bottles and bottles that had contained the modest vin ordinaire. In those respects the Germans do themselves well: Bombdr. Jamieson, Royal Artillery.

Brain and Muscle

The French are fighting hard all round us with a grit and a go that will carry them through. Have you ever seen a little man fighting a great, big, hulking giant, who keeps on forcing the little man about the place until the giant tires himself, and then the little one, who has kept his wind, knocks him over? That’s how the fighting round here strikes me. We are dancing about round the big German army here, but our turn will come: Corpl. T. Trainor.

A True Dream

It is a funny thing that Harry should dream about my arm being in a sling. You can tell him it is quite true. It was my right arm, and it is in a sling, but it will soon be out again for action. I enclose you a photo of dear old “Taff,” the goat which was the mascot of the regiment. He was shot the same day as I was, but I am very sorry to say that he is dead: Pte. Boswell, Welsh Regiment.

“Tough Nuts”

Have come across some very strange soldiers, with stranger weapons and equipment. Talk about the load of a Tommy, the pack of a Turco or Senegalese is double the size, and they are tough nuts, you take it from me. The cultured army of Kaiser Bill is material for mincemeat before very long, and all I can say is, “God help the troops with which the native regiments, both African and Indian, get to grips”: A Staff Sergeant-Major.

No Football!

It is all very well to read in the papers what a chap wrote to someone in Redhill about being fifty-six hours in the trenches and arranging football matches. We were thirteen days in the trenches at one place, where we only had to stand up a minute to bring a battery of German artillery on the top of us, and for hours we had to lie still or be blown to atoms. But never mind; the sun will shine again: Pte. Gibson, Royal Scots.

Hungry!

“Daddy’s Old Corps,” as we call the Lincolns, caught a lot of prisoners who seemed glad to get caught. One man was asked if he spoke English. He replied, “English none,” and on being asked if he wanted some biscuits, he said, “Ah, yes, I’m hungry,” so he was evidently a typical German—good at telling lies. He also knew how to demolish, for he got through six biscuits and a 12 oz. tin of bully in the twinkling of a gnat’s eyebrow, and then said, “More”: Corpl. Hawkins, of the Lincolns.

Animal Instinct

Even the animals in the French villages seemed to know the difference between us and the Germans, and they used to come out to meet us. There was a dog that followed our battery on the march for four days, and we hadn’t the heart to chase it away, and kept it with us. It was a soldier’s dog, you could see, and it died a soldier’s death, for it was smashed to pieces by a shell when curled upon the ground beside one of our guns in action. We crave it a soldier’s funeral with our own comrades next day: An Artilleryman, of Leicester.

Sacramental

I am thankful to say I managed to take communion this morning, the first time since I have been out here, and I took it under very extraordinary conditions. It was in a large house, which has been converted into a hospital, and we were in a dark cellar, in which were several casks of wine. We knelt on mattresses covered with blood, and we could hear shells bursting outside. We could also hear the groans of the wounded inside the building, Germans as well as English, but still the communion service was nice and inspiring, even under such conditions: Sergt.-Major Elliott, Queen’s West Surrey.

Sportsmen!

You see some of us with a saucepan, or a frying-pan, and all sorts of pots to do a bit of cooking in. We covered a large cornfield one day in action, and when a few rounds had gone up a hare and a rabbit dodged my way. I had them both. My pal had a plump little partridge, and then a fowl got in the way; so we had a good feed at the end of the day. We pooled the lot and put them in a pot together: Pte. Oliver, 2nd Worcesters.

Praise and Song

Before leaving Belgium we arranged with a priest to have masses said for the souls of our dead chums, and we scraped together what odd money we had, but his reverence wouldn’t hear of taking our money for prayers for the relief of the brave lads who had died so far from the Old Land to rid Belgian soil of the unmannerly German scrubs. When we got here we sang “Paddies Evermore,” and then we were off to chapel to pray for the souls of the lads that are gone: Private McGlade.

Convalescent!

By the address, you will see I am at my winter hotel, but, unfortunately, am confined to my room by a slight indisposition. As a matter of fact, I have been wounded in my left leg by a sweet little German humming-bird, or bullet, which wanted a good home. This place is a magnificent hotel, and we are very comfortable here. I am in a spacious ball-room, beautifully decorated. The kindness of the French people is wonderful, and an example to some of the Britishers, who in time of peace won’t look at a redcoat: Lance-Corporal Hawkins.

A Strange “Bisley”

We were down to the last cigarette in a box that had done the company for a week. There was a fight to get it, but the sergeant-major said we would have to shoot for it like the King’s Prize at Bisley. It was to go to the man hitting the most Germans in fifty shots. A corporal was sent up a tree to signal hits and misses as best he could. Half the company entered, and the prize was won by a chap who had twenty-three hits. The runner-up had twenty-two, and, as a sort of consolation prize, he was allowed to sit near while the winner smoked the cigarette. He said being near the smoke was better than nothing: A Private of the Scottish Rifles.

“Tiddlers!”

We billeted for two days at a place two days’ march from Belgium, and had a pretty good time bathing, and—what was most amusing—fishing in a small pond for “tiddlers.” I and a chum went to a woman at a house and, making her understand the best way we could, begged some cotton and a couple of pins. We had a couple of hours’ fishing, and captured quite two dozen, although before long lots of our chaps caught the complaint and did the same as we did, causing much amusement. I suppose that Frenchwoman had to buy a new stock of cotton, but she was a good sort and was as much amused as the soldiers: Pte. Purgue, of the Royal Fusiliers.

Grace—and Food

The open-air service was good. The chaplain is a dear old chap. I had to go and fetch him from headquarters and take him back after the service, which was rather touching, though he managed to put a bit of fun into it. He gave us a text which I think I shall remember all my life; it fitted the occasion so good. It was: “The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in.” I am having a rather soft time of it lately.... Two weeks ago I was out buying bullocks, and that journey lasted ten days. I had a nice bed each night, tons of good food, and a good bath. It was the first time I had taken my clothes off since we landed: A Soldier with the 4th Division Train.

Polus!

Our fellows get on very well with the Frenchmen; I suppose it is because most of us can talk the lingo after a style. There was one old chap called Polus, a short, tubby little fellow with bright eyes and black moustache, we palled up to quite a lot. He could sing quite well, and was very funny when we called him Signor Caruso. We had him by the fire the other night; you can imagine us round a fire in a corner, formed up against the outside wall of the station, and a lean-to shed, ourselves, some of the Scottish, and some Frenchmen, and this old chap singing and keeping us laughing all the time. He had really a fine voice, and sang the “Marseillaise” and “Toreador,” and one or two other songs very well indeed: Sergt. Sandle, of the H.A.C.

“Gey Hard!”

Two of our chaps one day had a wrangle about when we were likely to reach Berlin. One thought it would be by Christmas, but the other, being more patriotic, was for St. Andrew’s Day, and said there was no prospect of any haggis for the occasion. They made a bet on it, and it was duly registered by a chum, who acted as bookmaker for them frequently. Next day they were in action, and one of them was badly hit. His mate found him, and he saw he hadn’t long to live. The wounded man was far gone, but he had enough sense to recognize his chum, and in a weak voice he said, “I’m thinkin’, Geordie, that wee bet o’ oors wull hae tae be aff noo. It’s gey hard, but the Almighty kens best”: A Sergeant of the Seaforth Highlanders.

“Terribly Put Out”

I see men of the other Irish regiments now and again, and they’re terribly put out over the way these German heathens are destroying churches and sending priests out to starve by the roadside in order that the Germans may be free to live in their swinish way in the houses and churches and sacred buildings. There’s not a man in any of the regiments, Protestant or Roman, that doesn’t mean to make the Germans pay for this, and, with all their bitterness against our faith, there are Protestants from the North who are wilder than we are about it, and declare they won’t stand by and see such things done by dirty Germans without making a row about it. One of them said the other day in his solemn Presbyterian way, “I hate the Pope as much as any man, and I wouldn’t think twice about shutting down all your chapels, but it’s another story when the Germans try it on.” That’s the way most of the men from the North look at it: Pte. Harkness, Royal Irish Regiment.

A Fortunate One

I am one of the fortunate ones. I was always told I would never be killed, and I begin to think I was born under a lucky star. I have been engaged in driving motor-wagons to and from the men lying in the trenches fighting our battle on the Aisne. Certainly I have seen very little of the fighting, but the roar of the big guns has been my companion night and day. I had not been on the job four days before I lost my first wagon, which I named the “London, Croydon, and Purley Growler.” On my second journey to the field of operations we were ambushed by a body of Germans, who pounced out of a wood, but not one of them got back to tell the tale. It was a perfect eye-opener for me and a nerve-tester, I can tell you. We were just congratulating ourselves when crash went a shell on to the bonnet. How I escaped I don’t know. My growler was no good; she was a complete wreck. After transferring the load to another lorry we abandoned her and got away, but not before several of our fellows were winged: Private W. G. Davies, A.S.C.

Joke, but No Beer

Some men prefer to prepare their own food, but the majority divide themselves into sections and get one, or sometimes two, of their number to do all the cooking, washing up, etc. And whatever “cookie” serves up is always accepted as excellent. And many are the jokes cracked and tales told round the fire during meal-times. Very often the cooks have just got a fire going and the pots on when the order comes, “Wind up,” i.e. start engines going, and then there is commotion. Semi-boiling water has to be thrown away, and half-cooked food put back in the “grub-box” till the next stop. But we have nothing to grumble at. There is food—and to spare—for all of us. One thing that is often wanted by our men is a good glass of English ale. I know a few here who would gladly give their day’s rations for a “pint.” The “land of wine and cider” will never be the “land of beer” to the English Tommy. We have many a sing-song of a night round the camp fires. I have got a melodeon, which was left on a battlefield by a German soldier, so that is our band. It is an impressive sight to see about thirty fellows around a fire singing lustily “A Little Grey Home in the West,” accompanied by a melodeon, with the roar of cannon occasionally breaking in: Driver Drake, of the Supply Column.

The Country Round

The people all round here speak Flemish; it is a curious mixture of English, French, and German, and they sometimes give us useful information. They are a fine healthy stock, and work like niggers for us. Our hostess was up all night feeding soldiers as they came in. Yesterday I met a splendid old man, who told me all about his son and showed me his photograph; he had one postcard from his son, with no date, merely saying, “All well,” and the old man told me he had buried it in the garden for fear the Germans should come and take it from him. That gave me some idea of how people at home feel about their relatives at the front: Despatch-rider Gabain, 1st Cavalry Brigade.

“Jambon!”

We sleep fourteen in a tent, which is a bit crowded, but we are not in it long enough to notice it. Fourteen of us washed in two quarts of water this morning! So we have plenty of ink, and some of us haven’t changed our clothes for five or six weeks. We have two rather queer pets here: two little pigs, who run about among the horses, and are quite friendly with them, and eat their corn as well. As one of the fellows said, pork (or, as the French call it, jambon) tastes very nice boiled, so they may be, before very long, in the casualty list as missing or prisoners of war: Lance-Corpl. Forward, Army Service Corps.