Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The French tobacco is terrible, and the matches! Oh! Our fellows have christened them “Asquiths” because you have to “wait and see”: A Private of the R.A.M.C.

“Blime!”

One German Uhlan came up to an outpost of the Northampton and said, “Blime, take me a prisoner, I am fed up.” He had worked in London: A Private of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.

The Proof of It

A woman said laughingly to me, “If you kill the Kaiser you shall have my daughter.” I replied that I could do that all right, and that she could have a hair of his moustache: Private R. Coombe.

Laughter!

Although the war has its stern, hard, realistic side, there is also a humorous side, especially so with our Tommies. They turn almost everything into a joke; in fact, I think that is the secret of their wonderful sang-froid: Quartermaster-Sergt. Ridewood, 2nd Welsh Regiment.

A Great Game

What a dirty-looking lot we were—holes in our clothes and beards. Every time we passed a clothes-line the fellows took the clothes off it. They had lassies’ nightdresses and chemises, and anything, so long as it made a shirt. What a game it was! A Private of the 5th Lancers.

“Fine Feeds”

We are having good sport out here. I have got as good a heart now as I had when I left home. I tell you, there is nothing better than having a few shells and bullets buzzing round you as long as you don’t stop one. We are having some fine feeds out here—ducks, chickens, rabbits, and bags of fruit: Trooper Maddocks, 5th Cavalry Brigade.

No Tango in Paris

The Germans painted on the walls, “We will make the English do the Tango in Paris on September 13.” But we have had a say in that, and I am certain there are a few thousands less Germans now than there were since they wrote that message: Pte. W. Blackburn, 2nd Coldstream Guards.

L.B.W.!

An officer of the Cheshires, who is a bit of a cricketer, got uncomfortable after being cramped so long in the trenches. He raised his leg in shifting his position, and a bit of a shell hit him in the thigh. As he fell back all he said was, “Out, by George! l.b.w., as the umpire would say. Better luck next innings”: A Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.

Irish and Merry

We are settling down to the hard grind of active service, and if you saw us now you would think we well deserved our regimental nickname, “The Dirty Shirts.” When you have wielded the pick and shovel for a day or two in a blazing sun you don’t look as though you were going to a tea party or to chapel: Private T. Mulligan.

Cock-a-Doodle-Doo!

It is great fun watching the efforts of the troops to make the French people understand what they want. One of our fellows thought he would try for some eggs at a farmhouse. Naturally, they couldn’t understand him, so he opened his mouth, rubbed his stomach, flapped his arms, and cried, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” The eggs came promptly: Bombdr. H. Cressy, Royal Field Artillery.

Surrounded Them

Pat Ryan, of the Connaught Rangers, thought he ought to do something to celebrate his birthday, which fell on Friday week. Without telling a soul he went out of the trenches in the afternoon, and came back after dusk with two big Germans in tow. How or where he got them nobody knows. The captain asked how he managed to catch the two. “Sure and I surrounded them, sorr,” was the answer: A Gunner of the Royal Artillery.

Joking not Apart

We had six bridges to blow up. The centre bridge was to go up first, and we were to get over quickly after we had laid the charge. While we were waiting—there were ten of us—we saw a chap from the West Kents coming over, and we told him to jump for his life. The fuse was actually burning at the time, and I guess he broke all the records for jumping. A party of the King’s Own went into one battle shouting out, “Early doors this way. Early doors, ninepence!”: Sapper Mugridge.

Left the Duck

I was wounded in rather a curious manner. Being caterer to the officers’ mess, I was preparing the dinner, plucking a duck in the backyard, when a shell burst, and I was hit on the shoulder and head. I had laid the tables for dinner before, and to my surprise when I was expecting the return of officers, I was confronted by a party of Germans, who sat down and ate a hearty meal, while I managed to escape. Whether they finished the plucking and cooking of the duck, I thought it advisable not to return and see: Sergt. Hanks, 4th Middlesex Regiment.

Swimming for Them

For two whole days the rain came down on us in bucketfuls. It was like having the sea bottom turned upwards and the contents poured over us. At one point tents were floating around like yachts on the lake at the Welsh Harp. Those who had been foolish enough to get on the wrong side of their clothes the night before had the devil’s own job to find them in the morning. Swimming after your things when you wake up isn’t an aid to quick dressing: A Private of the Grenadiers.

Asked for Him

A wounded soldier I picked up the other day told me an amusing tale, although he was severely hurt. His regiment was capturing some Germans, and they were being disarmed, when this chap, in asking a German for his rifle, was bayoneted twice by the German and fell down unconscious. When he came round he said to his pals, “Where is the blighter?” “Never mind, Mick, don’t worry,” replied his pals; “we have just buried him”: Sergt. Hughes, Army Medical Corps.

Mighty Particular

There was a chap of the Grenadier Guards who was always mighty particular about his appearance, and persisted in wearing a tie all the time, whereas most of us reduce our needs to the simplest possible. One day, under heavy rifle fire, he was seen to be in a frightful fluster. “Are you hit?” he was asked. “No,” he said. “What is it, then?” “This —— tie is not straight,” he replied, and proceeded to adjust it under fire: Corpl. C. Hamer, Coldstream Guards.

Swear Words

One night when we were toiling along like to drop with fatigue, we ran right into a big party of horsemen posted near a wood. We thought they were Germans, for we could not make out the colour of the uniforms or anything else, until we heard someone sing out, “Where the hell do you think you’re going to?” Then we knew they were friends, and I don’t think I was ever so glad to hear a real good English swear: A Driver of the Royal Artillery.

Maids of All Work

Our Allies were greatly “taken” with the Highlanders, and many of them expressed surprise at the kindly behaviour and hearty manner of the Scotsmen. Apparently they thought the “kilties” were of a rather barbaric nature. Two Highlanders were billeted with an old French lady. Her strange lodgers gave the landlady no end of entertainment. They insisted on washing the dishes and doing all the housework, and when finished with these duties went the length of delving the garden: Private D. Goldie.

Step Outside

In camp one night one of the German prisoners was chock-full of peace-at-any-price cant, and talked a lot about all men being brothers. This didn’t please Terry Monahan, an Irish private of the Liverpool Regiment, and, in a towering rage, he turned on the German: “You dirty, church-going, altar-defiling, priest-murdering German devil,” he cried, “ye’re no brother of mine, and by the holy saints if ye’ll only step outside for wan minit it’s me will knock all the nonsense out of yer ugly head”: A Sergeant of the York and Lancaster Regiment.

Didn’t Wait!

There were two lads of our regiment who were both hit, and there was only one stretcher for them. Each had his views about which had the most need of it first. The big one got ragged with the other’s refusal, so raising himself with his unwounded arm, he cried, “You go the noo, Jock, an’ if you’re no slippy about it, you’ll gaur me gae ye something ye’ll remember when I’m a’ richt again.” Jock didn’t wait any longer after that: A Private of the Highland Light Infantry.

Kaiser and Highlander

During the advance we saw chalked notices written by Germans, such as “Wilhelm, Emperor of Europe.” Then underneath you would see a British Tommy had written, “I don’t think.” One curious incident was the sight of a Highlander who had taken pity on a woman refugee who was carrying two babies. He took one up in each arm, and carried them along whilst the woman walked by his side carrying his rifle. I could not see what Highland regiment he belonged to because there was hardly a man who had a badge: Corpl. W. L. Pook, Royal Engineers.

“Shove-Ha’penny”

An infantry chap found a table and, scoring lines on it with his bayonet, joined in a game of “shove-ha’penny” with four other Tommies. The sequel came later, as sequels will. When the party managed to reassemble for another game a shell had smashed the table to smithereens. “My luck’s out wi’ the infernal shove-ha’penny,” said the infantry chap. “I’m blowed if I’ll play any more.” Then he explained that just before the war he was playing for pots of beer in a public-house when the police raided the place. “Now it’s the Germans,” he added bitterly: A Private of the Army Medical Corps.

Comments

You hear some quaint remarks under heavy artillery fire. One day everything was quiet for a bit except for their shells, and one fellow shouted, “Fall in here for your pay, ‘A’ Company,” which caused men and officers to laugh aloud. When once we get under fire we take very little notice of it, for it seems to come natural to us. All we look for is something to shoot at, taking no notice of what our comrades are doing on either side. When ammunition is gone we shout, “Some more souvenirs for the Huns”: Pte. Homewood, Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.

“Mein Gott!”

A funny thing happened about a week ago. The scout officer of our regiment went out reconnoitring one night and rather lost his bearings. As he thought he was on his way back he bumped up against a trench which he took for his own, and started to walk along it till he came to someone, obviously an officer, walking up and down. “Hullo! Good evening,” he said; when the other officer, jumping back, said, “Mein Gott, the English!” and before he had got over his surprise the scout officer jumped out of the trench and got away without being hit: A British Scout.

“Tickets, Please!”

There’s a corporal of a regiment that I won’t name who was a ticket-collector on the railway before the war, and when he was called back to the colours he wasn’t able to forget his old trade. One day he was in charge of a patrol that surprised a party of Germans in a wood, and, instead of a usual call to surrender, he sang out, “Tickets, please!” The Germans seemed to understand what he was driving at, for they surrendered at once, but that chap will never hear the end of the story, for when everything else ceases to amuse in the trenches, you have only to shout out, “Tickets, please!” to set everybody in fits: A Gunner of the Royal Artillery.

No Uhlans Need Apply!

We were about as hungry as men could be when we came on a party of Uhlans just about to sit down to a nice dinner which had been prepared for them at a big house. They looked as if they had had too much of a good time lately and wanted thinning down; so we took them prisoners, and let them watch us enjoying their dinner. They didn’t like it at all, and one of them muttered something about an English pig. The baby of the troop asked him to come outside to settle it with fists, but he wasn’t having it. After the best dinner I’ve had in my life we went round to where the Uhlans had commandeered the supplies and offered to pay, but the people were so pleased that we had got the food instead of the Germans that they wouldn’t hear of payment: Trooper Dale, Royal Dragoons.

Cooking Their Dinner

Have you ever tried cooking a dinner under shell fire? It’s about as exciting as anything you could have in this world. Yesterday we were in the firing line, and as there were no prospects of relief, we had to make a spit and roast some fowls we had been given by the villagers. Just when they were doing nicely, and we were going around to turn them, the Germans found the range, and shells began to drop all around. We had to lie low, and when there was a lull one of us would rush out and turn the nearest bird, and then run back again under cover. We got them cooked all right, but two of our chaps were killed outright and four injured. That’s a big bill to pay for a dinner; but soldiers are like beggars, they can’t be choosers. Out here is no place for the faint-hearts, and we want only real men, who are afraid of nothing: Pte. T. Bayley, 5th Irish Lancers.

Business as Usual

Our men had just had their papers from home, and have noted, among other things, that “Business as Usual” is the motto of patriotic shopkeepers. In hard fighting the Wiltshires, holding an exposed position, ran out of ammunition, and had to suspend firing until a party brought fresh supplies across the open under a heavy fire. Then the wag of the regiment, a Cockney, produced a biscuit tin with “Business as Usual” crudely printed on it, and set it up before the trenches as a hint to the Germans that the fight could now be resumed on more equal terms. Finally the tin had to be taken in because it was proving such a good target for the German riflemen, but the joker was struck twice in rescuing it: A Private of the Wiltshire Regiment.

For Neuralgia!

We’re just keeping at it in the same old slogging style that always brings us out on top. There’s one chap in our company has got a ripping cure for neuralgia, but he isn’t going to take out a patent, because it’s too risky, and might kill the patient. Good luck’s one of the ingredients, and you can’t always be sure of that. He was lying in the trenches the other day nearly mad with pain in his face, when a German shell burst close by. He wasn’t hit, but the explosion knocked him senseless for a bit. “Me neuralgia’s gone,” says he, when he came round. “And so’s six of your mates,” says we. “Oh, crikey!” says he. His name’s Palmer, and that’s why we call the German shells now “Palmer’s Neuralgia Cure”: Pte. H. Thomson, 1st Gordon Highlanders.

“The Wearin’ o’ the Green!”

The German officer rushed off to Tim Flanagan, the biggest caution in the whole regiment, and called on him to surrender the file of men under his orders. “Is it me your honour’s after talking to in that way?” says Tim in that bold way of his. “Sure, now, it’s yourself that ought to be surrendering, and if you’re not off this very minute, you ill-mannered German omadhaun, it’s me will be after giving you as much cold steel as’ll do you between this and the kingdom of heaven.” Then the German officer gave the word to his men, and what happened after that I can’t tell to you, for it was just then I got a bullet between my ribs; but I can tell you that neither Tim nor any of his men surrendered: A Private of the Connaught Rangers.

Not a Yarn

A barber would do a roaring trade if he came here, no one having shaved for weeks. Consequently, beards vary according to the age of the individual and the length of time he has not shaved. Mine, for instance, is something to gaze on and remember. They are not by any means what a writer in a lady’s novelette would describe as “a perfect dream.” They are scattered over my chivvy-chase in anything but order, nineteen on one side, fifteen on the other, and thirty-five on the chin, intermixed with a small smattering of down and dirt. Dirt, did I say? That doesn’t describe it. Water is at a discount, except for drinking: soap something to read about, and you wonder when you last used it, and when you will use it again. I can safely say, “Three weeks ago I used your soap; since then I have used no other.” And that’s not spinning you a yarn: Sergt. Diggins, Leicestershire Regiment.

“Hallo, Old Tin Hat!”

About four thousand Germans, backed up by heavy artillery play, tried to cross the river. There were only 300 Connaught Rangers all told who could be spared to keep them from fixing pontoons. Down to the river-bank they came, firing for all they were worth. The Irishmen were entrenched, and shouted across the river such greeting as “Hallo, old tin hat! When are you coming over?” and as soon as the Irishmen caught sight of the great boots of the Germans, Hibernian humour was irrepressible. The Rangers shouted, “We see you; it’s no good hiding there. We can see your ears sticking out!” Then the Rangers settled down to enjoy themselves, but a little later some more German infantry, which had crossed the river to another point, attempted to outflank them. It was terribly hard work, but the way the Irish stuck it would have taken your breath away: A Nottingham Artilleryman.

Orange and Green

Mick Clancy is that droll with his larking and bamboozling the Germans that he makes us nearly split our sides laughing at him and his ways. Yesterday he got a stick and put a cap on it so that it peeped above the trenches just like a man, and then the Germans kept shooting away at it until they must have used up tons of ammunition, and there was us all the time laughing at them. Tommy McQuiston, the big sergeant from the Black North, does nothing else morning, noon, and night but talk about Ned Carson and what he and his volunteers will do when they come out to fight the Germans. He has to put up with a lot of banter and back chat from us on the quiet in the sergeants’ mess, but, sure, though he’s mad Orange, he knows as well as anyone that we think no less of him for that. To get his dander up we tell him he’s going to be the door porter in the Dublin Parliament when the war’s over; but he never begrudges us our bit of diversion and devilment, and says more like he’ll end his days as a warder in a convict prison in charge of us: Sergeant T. Cahill.

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