Wordsworth’s “Motherland.”

William Watson’s “Ten Men Forsworn.”

Give my love to Patrick-street, Waterford, for that is where the best girl on earth lives, and tell Ireland that we’re doing our duty and that Thomas Moran will have another go at the Germans directly the doctor permits: Pte. T. Moran, East Lancashire Regiment.

Busy!

We have had no time for anything, for when we have a minute to spare I have to give my clothes a scrub, and they don’t half get in a state. I have only got one pair of socks, and I have to wait while they dry before I can wear them: Pte. Chapman, 3rd Hussars.

“Really Good”

I am well, and just about having the time of my life. It’s really good always being on the move, seeing fresh sights every day; and if there should be a few Germans on the move—why, it only increases the fun, and throws a little more excitement into the work: Corpl. R. Carton, Royal Field Artillery.

A Great Time!

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 G. W. Maddocks, 5th Cavalry Brigade.

In Mourning

Every now and again our vans go out to aid in collecting and dealing with the poor fellows who are wounded. The dead, of course, are beyond earthly aid, but the chaplain reads some prayers as the bodies are interred. Burials take place at all sorts of queer places—by the roadside, in farmyards, etc. It is awful to see the devastation which has been wrought: Pte. Coombe, Army Medical Corps.

Consolations

Except for a bad cold and having lost all my belongings, I am none the worse. The thing I am sorry about is that it all happened so soon and sudden, and I hardly had time to look round. But I am ready for the next “Day excursion to Berlin.” I have one consolation, and that is I killed two Uhlans and wounded one before they captured me: A Trooper of the Dragoon Guards.

All Smiles!

Much amusement was caused during yesterday afternoon by some remarkable legends chalked up on some transport wagons passing through. Such sentences as “This way to Berlin!” “Kaiser killers,” “Kaiser’s coffin,” “Vive la France!” and sundry other information marked up in chalk by the dusty, but jovial travellers, caused people to stop and smile: Lance-Corpl. F. E. Hunt, Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.

The Pot Boiling

I am very well; plenty to eat, and tobacco. We are in action in a wood, guns nicely under cover, and we shall be, too, shortly, for it is getting dark. We have made snug little shelters for ourselves, and are quite “comfy.” The pot is on the fire, and it won’t be long before we have a good feed. I hope to be home for Christmas dinner, so have a good spread: Bombdr. Earp, Royal Artillery.

The Old Horse

I came down to the rest camp with others to get a fresh horse. My old horse was shot under me. I was sorry, too, for he was a splendid animal, and it is solely due to him that I am alive to write this letter. We had to make a run for it, and I can tell you that those with slow horses did not get far. Things are going very well indeed with us now, although they are about five, and in some cases twenty, to one. But we can generally manage to thrash them: Corpl. R. Greenwood, 18th Hussars.

No More Collecting

I have given up collecting pieces of shells for souvenirs, having found myself a veritable Krupp’s scrap heap. Spies seem to be the chief excitement here, and the old motto has been altered to read, “Catch that spy!” Two days ago a haystack was found in the interior of which was a complete telegraph office working by underground cable to the German lines, and thus the Germans were kept acquainted with our movements and the disposition of our artillery: A Telegraphist, 1st Army Headquarters.

Worthy of Tom Brown

Another chap tried to get some bread at a farm. After he had made all sorts of queer signs the woman seemed to understand, and said, “Oui, oui, M’sieur,” rushed back into the house and brought back a bundle of hay! There was a terrific roar of laughter from the troops. The nonplussed look on the woman’s face and the “fed-up” expression on the chap’s made a picture worthy of the pencil of poor old Tom Brown: Bombdr. E. Cressy, Royal Field Artillery.

Wonderfully Popular

The troops are wonderfully popular, and I think a lot of it is due to their kindliness to the kiddies and animals, and also to their unbounded enthusiasm and good spirits. There’s no grousing, and there is nothing but what fun is made of. No one has seen the soldier at his best unless he has seen him here. Grimy, unshaved, his khaki full of grease marks, and tired out, yet full of life and fun, his sole luxury a good wash—grub, sleep, everything goes to blazes if there’s water to be had for a wash, but, good Lord, you should see our towels: A Sergeant of the Army Service Corps.

Messing Together

Every day we receive jam, bacon or ham, bread, tinned meat (commonly known as bully-beef), biscuits, and cheese. We do not get a lot, but enough to keep us in trim and free from want. We also get plenty of dry tea and sugar. It is quite amusing at first to see the lads making their tea, a thing they are doing all day long. On this game the boys generally get together in groups of sixes, draw their rations in bulk, and mess together. You ought to see their cooking utensils. They use water-cans, pails, in fact, anything that holds a decent amount of water: Sergt. Clark, Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.

“Merry and Bright”

I see you are all excited about getting us plenty of socks, but Heaven only knows when we shall get a chance to wear them. I haven’t been out of my boots for a fortnight. It would be much more to the point if you were to send us men to give the Germans “socks.” “Merry and bright” is still our motto. Don’t get downhearted, no matter what you hear at home. Some of these days things will come all right. Keep your eyes wide open, and you will have a big surprise sooner than you think. We’re all right, and the Germans will find that out sooner than you at home: Private J. Willis.

Next, Please!

I have never seen our lads so cheery as they are under great trials. You couldn’t help being proud of them if you saw them lying in the trenches cracking jokes or smoking while they take pot-shots at the Germans.... We have very little spare time now, but what we have we pass by smoking concerts, sing-songs, and story-telling. Sometimes we have football for a change, with a German helmet for a ball, and to pass the time in the trenches have invented the game of guessing where the next German shell will drop. Sometimes we have bets on it, and the man who guesses correctly the greatest number of times takes the stakes: Sapper Bradle.

That “Interest”

We are at present living in a school, and it seems funny to see so many soldiers’ beds on the floor. Our bedding (don’t laugh) is one waterproof sheet and our coat for a blanket; and still we are all as happy as sand-boys. We have been here some time now enjoying a rest, and at the same time getting fitted out again for the front. As you can imagine by reading the papers, nearly everything we had—horses, carts, wagons, cookers, and Maxims—were all blown in the air by German shells, but I am thankful to say we have got over all that, and shan’t forget to pay out Johnnie German with interest the first time we have the luck to meet him again, which we all hope won’t be long, as the sooner they are crushed the sooner we will get home again: A Private of Keith, N.B.

Sad and Glad

I am having a very interesting but a jolly hard time. About fourteen days ago I was chased four miles by German Lancers. They were on horses, and I was on my machine. The road was so bad they nearly had me, but I stuck to it and got away. It has been raining “cats and dogs” the last three days, and I am wet through, but happy and contented and very well. I shall have loads to tell you when I get home—tales, I fear, of pain, rapine, suffering, and all the horrors of a great war; but all the same I have some funny experiences to relate as well: Special Dispatch-Rider A. R. Gurney.

Unexpected!

On the Marne we spent two days on a long mine out towards the German lines, and just when we were getting to the close of our job we heard pickaxes going as fast and as hard as you like, and then the wall of clay before us gave way, showing a party of Germans at the same game! You never saw men more astonished in your life. “Fancy meeting you,” was written all over their faces, and they hadn’t quite recovered from their shock when we pounced on them. We had a pretty sharp scrap down there indeed, but we got the best of it, though we had four of our chaps laid out. One German devil was just caught in time with a fuse which he was going to apply with the mad idea of blowing us all up! Sapper T. Gilhooly, Royal Engineers.

Tempting Grapes

In the last fight we were posted near to a wall over which hung the most tempting grapes you ever set eyes on. When you’ve lain for nearly a day in a hot sun without bite or sup, grapes seem more tempting than ever. Though the Germans seemed to concentrate their whole fire on the corner where those grapes were, most of us couldn’t resist the temptation and risk of stealing out to get them. What you had to do was to crawl along the top of the trenches like a big snail, and then, when you got there, make a big spring up and catch what you could before the German shots caught you. We weren’t always successful, and there’s many a lad of ours owes his life or his wounds to touching that forbidden fruit: An Irish Guardsman.

“Our Menu!”

We were on a convoy of ammunition and food, and had to go about 150 miles. We had got seventy odd miles, when we were sighted by Uhlans. There were about 100 of them, and fifty of our men, and we got in a very bad position, but we got out with the loss of a few drivers, and we never lost any of our convoy. This is our menu: Monday: breakfast, eggs; dinner, roast beef; tea, cake; supper, fish. Tuesday: breakfast, eggs; dinner, roast beef; tea, cake; supper, eels. Wednesday: breakfast, steak; dinner, rabbit; tea, biscuits; supper, eels. Thursday: breakfast, liver; dinner, pork; tea, kippers; supper, stew. Friday: breakfast, beef; dinner, ham; tea, jam; supper, stew. Saturday: breakfast, bacon; dinner, rabbit; tea, ducks; supper, eggs. Sunday: breakfast, eggs and bacon; dinner, roast beef; tea, tea. After Sunday tea we all go to the pictures (I don’t think): Driver Ellis, Army Service Corps.

Trust Thomas!

We were all of us hungry yesterday. To-day I have been out about a mile and have returned with some carrots, onions, and potatoes. These have been peeled, cut up, and are now boiling in a pail with six tins of corned beef added. A feed is what we contemplate, and a feed we will have. We are all looking forward to a profound gorge, and I, for one, have moist lips at thought of the meal within a commandeered pail! But the bucket of stew is done! It’s fine! Excellent!! Yes! All that because it is rare on campaigns such as this. We very seldom see a cooked meal. It is usually bread and biscuit, tinned beef or tinned jam, bacon or cheese. Trust Thomas Atkins to look after himself, as you trust him to break the back of Kaiserism: Pte. A. E. Basham, Bedfordshire Regiment.

Night Duty

You ask me what night duty in a surgical ward on active service is like. Well, imagine a huge square room, holding fifty beds, at present occupied by thirty-three patients, the rest having been sent to the base hospital for convalescents. We mount duty at 8 o’clock, and finish at 7 A.M. next morning. Our work during the night consists of attending to their personal wants, such as—one would like a drink of hot milk, another cannot sleep, he is in pain—a shrapnel wound in the thigh, and, unfortunately, he cannot turn over. So you have to look at the dressing, see that everything is O.K., start a bit of a yarn about anything, until he or you get fed up. Get him a drink, and, in all probability, the next time you have a look at him he is asleep: A Hospital Orderly.

Sea Echoes

We get now and again odd stories of what our tars are doing, and we were mighty pleased over that dust-up in the North Sea. We kept singing “Boys of the Bulldog Breed” till we thought our throats would crack, and it was taken up all along the line by our men. It’s not so risky as you would think on the battlefield. We were under heavy fire for two days before one of us was hit; I know other regiments had similar experiences. You’re all right so long as you keep under cover, but where the losses come in is when you have to retire with all those fiendish guns blazing away at you in the open. Then you can’t help being hit, and there’s always their cavalry to look out for, though it isn’t of much account against men with the bayonet. They have more than they know what to do with, and they’re always turning up where they’re least expected: Corporal W. Johnson.

The Motor-Man

There are two of us in charge of each motor, because the roads being very bad our hands and wrists get awfully tired holding the wheel, and we relieve each other. Ours is most important work, for it has been said an army marches on its stomach—that is to say, an army is not much use if it is hungry; therefore, if I have food wagons attached to my motor I must be on the spot when wanted—with ammunition it is just the same, of course. When our ammunition wagons get empty other full ones are brought up and ours are filled. We never go back to fetch anything; so it is the fighting line all the time. When the battle is over—and some of them have been very long, lasting over days and days—we get what rest and sleep we can, and have a sound meal. If we have been fortunate enough we have had sundry naps during lulls in the fighting, and have been able to get our food in the same manner: A Salvationist Motor man, Royal Field Artillery.

An Interpreter

I now coil myself up in the “O.P.” corner of the stage of the municipal theatre. It is curious to see by the dim light of the pilot lights forty or fifty men sleeping on the boards with their rifles stacked between them. The curtain is up, but the auditorium is dark and empty, for what is probably the most realistic and interesting scene that has ever been set between its proscenium. I am surrounded by a crowd of French people of every age and of all shapes and sizes. The fact that I am writing a letter seems to strike them as an incident of extraordinary interest. “Here’s one writing a letter,” they call to their friends, and they all flock round. The people of this town press round us when we feed, sleep, wash, dress, and, in fact, at every moment of the day. Until we were quartered in the theatre some of the more modest soldiers were compelled to wait till it was dark before they could summon up sufficient courage to change their clothes. One old lady has just come up and tested the quality of the material of my tunic and has moved off nodding her head in approbation. Their interest in our welfare is practical, nevertheless: Pte. F. J. St. Aubyn, Interpreter.

A Proper Adventure

We saw a small body of Germans, and, having nothing better to do, we were told to go and capture them. There were thirty, and they all gave in except one, who made a rush for it right back past our convoy. Two of us went after him. The men on the lorries fired, but they were afraid of hitting us. He led us through the village, and turned up a back lane into a sort of builder’s yard. In that yard was a pit of soft lime, and we were all running so fast that we did not see it. It looked like sand. In he falls. I am following; in I goes; can’t stop in time; up to our waists. This bloke makes a grab at me; we have a struggle; we are going in further, gun and all. The other man is shouting, “Why don’t you shoot him?” but I couldn’t. The barrel was choked with lime. Then he spit in my face. That done it. I hit him just a tap with the butt end of my rifle on the napper, and down he went. Meanwhile my pal had gone for help. They fetched planks, ladders, and all sorts of things. At last they pulled me out by sticking my head and shoulders through the rungs. You should have seen me when I did get out—a very pretty sight. When the women saw me they tore all the things off me and threw pails of water over me and thoroughly dowsed me. One woman gave me an old skirt to put on, and I marched back like that. As far as I know, that “sausage” is there now, as he did not wake up after that tap for luck: An Infantry Private.

“Culture” for Them

The Germans are great on night attacks, but they soon found out that they had to be out very early if they wanted to catch us napping. One night we got a hint that something might be looked for, so we made preparations to give them a very nice reception when they paid their early morning call. Strong parties of picked shots were thrown out all along the line towards the German trenches and their orders were to lie in wait until the Germans came up to drive back the pickets. Just when we were getting impatient and wanting to shout, “Hurry up! Hurry up!” like they do in the music halls when the turns are slow at coming on, rifles began to crack in front, and the pickets fell back more quickly than usual. That was our chance. The Germans came on like the great big brave chaps they are when they’re twenty to one, and we let them come until the head of their force was level with a tree that had been marked for range. “Now!” the officer in command whispered, and we gave it them right where they carry their rations after dinner. We poured another volley into them, and then went after them with the bayonets. They beat us easily in the sprinting; besides, we had orders not to venture too far from camp, so we came back and lay down to wait for the next turn. They came back again, and when they got to the tree they stopped to look around. They got the same old sauce as before, and they were off again. The entertainment wasn’t altogether over, for half an hour later a big body of Germans falling back from another little surprise on our left walked right into us. We blazed right into them, and they didn’t wait to ask what sort of culture it was that made it possible to grow rifles in the wood at night-time: A Lance-Corporal of the East Yorkshire Regiment.

Cooking no Joke

I daresay you wonder how we go on about our cooking. When we were in column we had a cook for every sub-section. Every evening, or when we arrived at our billet, rations were drawn. A sub-section of forty men would draw about eight to twelve pounds of cheese, nine or ten pounds of bacon, about one and a half to two pounds of tea, two to three pounds of sugar, and, if there was bread, about sixteen loaves, each weighing about two pounds, or two 56 lb. boxes of biscuits, forty tins of bully beef, or twenty-eight pounds of fresh meat. I cooked for three weeks, and I can assure you it is no joke to be cook to forty men and not know much about the work. I will give an idea of a day’s work as cook. We had as a rule rÉveillÉ at 3 A.M. or 4 A.M. I would get up half an hour earlier and start the fire. The water would boil within twenty minutes, and I put the tea and sugar in. The men would afterwards use the fire themselves for frying. Directly breakfast was over I filled the dixies again and kept them ready for dinner. Some of the fellows would come in and would peel potatoes and carrots. I cut the meat up, or, if there was no fresh meat, I opened tins of bully beef as a substitute. I put this on the fire two or three hours before dinner so as to ensure it being done properly. In the afternoon rations were drawn. I had to cut them up, and it wants some judgment to cut a small piece of bacon or cheese for forty hungry men. But it was always done somehow. Tea was ready from four to five o’clock. Milk was got where possible, in addition to eggs and butter. I was fed up with it after three weeks and handed it over. It is different in the battery I am in here. The corporal draws the rations and cuts them up. We generally have bacon for breakfast. We fry it in our saucepan together and soak the bread in the fat; it goes down good: Gunner Southern, Royal Horse Artillery.

Let Down Lightly

One night—there were about ten of us—we were surprised to find a light in an empty farmhouse, and were still more surprised to find sounds of revelry coming out through the window. We peeped in, and there were about fifty Germans all over the shop, drinking, and eating, and smoking, and generally trying to look as if they were having a jolly old time. It was a dare-devil of an Irishman who suggested that we ought to give the Germans a little surprise, and we were all in with him. Doing our best to look fierce, and create the impression that we had at least a brigade behind us, we flung open the door without any ceremony. Our first rush was for the passage where most of the Germans had stacked their rifles, and from there we were able to cover the largest party in any one room. They were so taken aback that they made very little resistance. The only chap who showed any fight at all was a big fellow, who had good reason to fear us, for he had escaped the day before, after being arrested as a spy. He whipped out a revolver, and some of his chums drew swords, but we fired into them, and they threw up their hands, after the little one had sent a revolver bullet through my arm. We fastened them up securely, collected all the smokes and grub they had not touched, and marched them off to the camp. There was a nice how-d’ye-do when we got back, for the sound of firing so close by had alarmed the whole camp, and we were called to account for our behaviour. I think they were inclined to let us down lightly, because of the prisoners, particularly the spy chap; but we had no business to be out of barracks that night, and we’ll probably have some mark of official displeasure chalked up against us: Pte. F. Lewis, 1st South Staffs.