Chapter 1

500 OF THE BEST
COCKNEY
WAR
STORIES

REPRINTED FROM THE LONDON
Evening News

AND ILLUSTRATED BY
BERT THOMAS

WITH AN OPENING YARN BY
GENERAL
SIR IAN HAMILTON
G.C.B., G.C.M.G., D.S.O., etc.
Vice-President of the British Legion
President of the Metropolitan Area of the
British Legion

ASSOCIATED NEWSPAPERS LTD.
LONDON, E.C.4

EDITOR'S FOREWORD

In the remembering, and in the retelling, of those war days when
laughter sometimes saved men's reason, Cockneys the world over have
left to posterity a record of noble and imperishable achievement.

From the countless tales collected by the London _Evening News_ these
five hundred, many of them illustrated by the great war-time artist,
Bert Thomas, have been chosen as a fitting climax and perpetuation.

Sir Ian Hamilton's story of another war shows that, however much
methods of fighting may vary from generation to generation, there is no
break in continuity of a great tradition, that the spirits of laughter
and high adventure are immortal in the make-up of the British soldier.

Sir Ian's story is doubly fitting. As President of the Metropolitan
Area of the British Legion he is intimately concerned with the
after-war welfare of just that Tommy Atkins who is immortalised in
these pages. In the second place, all profits from the sale of this
book will be devoted to the cause which the Higher Command in every
branch of the Services is fostering--the British Legion.

CONTENTS

SIR IAN HAMILTON'S STORY
1. ACTION
2. LULL
3. HOSPITAL
4. HIGH SEAS
5. HERE AND THERE #/

SIR IAN HAMILTON'S STORY

The Great War was a matrix wherein many anecdotes have sprouted.
They are short-lived plants--fragile as mushrooms--none too easy to
extricate either, embedded as they are in the mass.

To dig out the character of a General even from the plans of his
General Staff is difficult; how much more difficult to dig out the
adventures of Number 1000 Private Thomas Atkins from those of the other
999 who went "like one man" with him over the top? In the side-shows
there was more scope for the individual and in the Victorian wars
much more scope. To show the sort of thing I mean I am going to put
down here for the first time an old story, almost forgotten now, in
the hopes that it may interest by its contrast to barrages and barbed
wire. Although only an old-fashioned affair of half a dozen bullets and
three or four dead men it was a great event to me as it led to my first
meeting with the great little Bobs of Kandahar.

On the morning of September 11, 1879, I lay shivering with fever and
ague at Alikhel in Afghanistan. So sick did I seem that it was decided
I should be carried a day's march back to G.H.Q. on the Peiwar Kotal to
see if the air of that high mountain pass would help me to pull myself
round. Polly Forbes, a boy subaltern not very long from Eton, was sent
off to play the part of nurse.

We reached the Peiwar Kotal without any adventure, and were allotted
a tent in the G.H.Q. camp pitched where the road between the Kurram
Valley and Kabul ran over the high Kotal or pass. Next morning,
although still rather weak in the knees, I felt game for a ride to the
battlefield. So we rode along the high ridge through the forest of
giant deodars looking for mementoes of the battle. The fact was that we
were, although we knew it not, in a very dangerous No Man's Land.

We had reached a point about two miles from camp when we were startled
by half a dozen shots fired in quick succession and still more startled
to see some British soldiers rushing down towards us from the top of a
steep-sided knoll which crowned the ridge to our immediate front.

Close past us rushed those fugitives and on, down the hillside, where
at last, some hundred yards below us, they pulled up in answer to our
shouts. But no amount of shouts or orders would bring them up to us,
so we had to get off our ponies and go down to them. There were seven
of them--a Corporal and three men belonging to one of the new short
service battalions and three signallers--very shaky the whole lot. Only
one was armed with his rifle; he had been on sentry-go at the moment
the signalling picquet had been rushed--so they said--by a large body
of Afghans.

What was to be done? I realised that I was the senior. Turning to the
Corporal I asked him if he could ride. "Yes, sir," he replied rather
eagerly. "Well, then," I commanded, "you get on to that little white
mare up there and ride like hell to G.H.Q. for help. You others go up
with him and await orders." Off they went, scrambling up the hill,
Forbes and I following rather slowly because of my weakness. When we
got up to the path, ponies, syces, all had disappeared except that one
soldier who had stuck to his rifle.

All was as still as death in the forest where we three now stood alone.
"Where are the others?" I asked the man. "I think they must be killed."
"Do you think they are up there?" "Yessir!" So I turned to Forbes and
said, "If there are wounded or dead up there we must go and see what we
can do."

Where we stood we were a bit far away from the top of the wooded hill
for a jezail shot to carry and once we began to climb the slope we
found ourselves in dead ground. Nearing the top, my heart jumped into
my mouth as I all but put my foot on a man's face. Though I dared not
take my eyes off the brushwood on the top of the hill, out of the
corner of my eye I was aware he was a lascar and that he must be dead,
for his head had nearly been severed from his body.

At that same moment we heard a feeble cry in Hindustani, "_Shabash,
Sahib log, chello!_" "Bravo, Gentlemen, come along!" This came from
another lascar shot through the body--a plucky fellow. "_Dushman kahan
hain?_"--"Where are the enemy?" I whispered. "When the sahibs shouted
from below they ran away," he said, and at that, side by side with the
revolvers raised to fire, Forbes and I stepped out on to the cleared
and levelled summit of the hill, a space about fifteen feet by twenty.

All was quiet and seemed entirely normal. There stood the helio and
there lay the flags. Most astonishing of all, there, against a pile
of logs, rested the priceless rifles of the picquet guard with their
accoutrements and ammunition pouches lying on the ground beside them.
Making a sign to Forbes we laid down our revolvers ready to hand, took,
each of us, a rifle, loaded it, fixed the bayonet and stood at the
ready facing the edge of the forest about thirty yards away.

Even in these days when my memory is busy chucking its seventy years or
so of accumulations overboard, the memory of that tense watch into the
forest remains as fresh as ever. For the best part of half an hour it
must have lasted. At last we heard them--not the Afghans but our own
chaps, coming along the ridge and now they were making their way in
open order up the hill--a company of British Infantry together with a
few Pathan auxiliaries, the whole under command of Captain Stratton of
the 22nd Foot, head Signaller to the Force.

In few words my story was told and at once bold Stratton determined
to pursue down the far side of the hill. Stratton had told me to go
back to camp, but I did not consider that an order and, keeping on the
extreme left of the line so that he should not see me, I pushed along.

I noticed that the young soldier of the picquet who had stuck to his
rifle was still keeping by me as the long line advanced down the slope,
which gradually bifurcated into two distinct spurs. The further we went
the wider apart drew the spurs and the deeper became the intervening
nullah. Captain Stratton, Forbes, and the Regimental Company commander
were all on the other or eastern spur and the men kept closing in
towards them, until at last everyone, bar myself and my one follower,
had cleared off the western spur. I did not want to cross the
nullah, feeling too weak and tired to force my way through the thick
undergrowth. Soon we could no longer hear or see the others.

Suddenly I heard Click! "Take cover!" I shouted and flung myself behind
a big stone. Sure enough, the moment often imagined had come! Not more
than twenty paces down the slope an old, white-bearded, wicked-looking
Enemy was aiming at me with his long jezail from behind a fallen log.
Click! again. Another misfire.

Now I was musketry instructor of my regiment, which had been the best
shooting regiment in India the previous year. My revolver was a rotten
little weapon, but I knew its tricks. As the Afghan fumbled with his
lock I took aim and began to squeeze the trigger. Another instant and
he would have been dead when bang! went a rifle behind me; my helmet
tilted over my eyes, my shot went where we found it next day, about six
feet up into a tree. The young soldier had opened rapid fire just over
my head.

At the same time, I saw another Afghan come crouching through the
brushwood below me towards a point where he would be able to enfilade
my stone. I shouted to my comrade, "I'm coming back to you," and turned
to make for his tree. Luck was with me. At that very moment bang went
the jezail and when we dug out the bullet next morning and marked the
line of fire, it became evident that had I not so turned I would never
have sat spinning this yarn.

That shot was a parting salute. There were shouts from the right of the
line, and as I was making for my tree the Afghans made off in the other
direction. I shouted to Stratton and his men to press down to the foot
of the hill, working round to the north so as to cut off the raiders.
Then, utterly exhausted, I began my crawl back to the camp.

Soon after I had got in I was summoned into the presence of the
redoubtable Bobs. Although I had marched past him at Kohat this was
my first face-to-face meeting with one who was to play the part
of Providence to my career. He made me sit in a chair and at once
performed the almost incredible feat of putting me entirely at my ease.
This he did by pouring a golden liquid called sherry into a very large
wine-glass. Hardly had I swallowed this elixir when I told him all
about everything, which was exactly what he wanted.

A week later the Commander of the Cavalry Brigade, Redan Massy, applied
to Headquarters for an Aide-de-Camp. Sir Fred Roberts advised him to
take me. That billet led to unimaginable bliss. Surrounding villages
by moonlight, charging across the Logar Valley, despising all foot
sloggers--every sort of joy I had longed for. The men of the picquet
who had run away were tried by Court Martial and got long sentences,
alas--poor chaps! The old Mullah was sent to his long account by
Stratton.

But that is the point of most war stories; when anyone gets a lift up
it is by the misfortune or death of someone else.

IAN HAMILTON.

COCKNEY WAR STORIES

1. ACTION

The Outside Fare

During the third battle of Ypres a German field gun was trying to hit
one of our tanks, the fire being directed no doubt by an observation
balloon.

On the top of the tank was a Cockney infantryman getting a free ride
and seemingly quite unconcerned at Jerry's attempts to score a direct
hit on the tank.

As the tank was passing our guns a shrapnel shell burst just behind it
and above it.

We expected to see the Cockney passenger roll off dead. All he did,
however, was to put his hand to his mouth and shout to those inside the
tank: "Hi, conductor! Any room inside?--it's rainin'!"--_A. H. Boughton
(ex "B" Battery, H.A.C.), 53 Dafforne Road, S.W.17._

"Barbed Wire's Dangerous!"

A wiring party in the Loos salient--twelve men just out from home.
Jerry's Verey lights were numerous, machine-guns were unpleasantly
busy, and there were all the dangers and alarms incidental to a sticky
part of the line. The wiring party, carrying stakes and wire, made its
way warily, and every man breathed apprehensively. Suddenly one London
lad tripped over a piece of old barbed wire and almost fell his length.

"Lumme," he exclaimed, "that ain't 'arf dangerous!"--_T. C. Farmer,
M.C., of Euston Square, London (late of "The Buffs")._

Tale of an Egg

I was attached as a signaller to a platoon on duty in an advanced post
on the Ypres-Menin Road. We had two pigeons as an emergency means of
communication should our wire connection fail.

One afternoon Fritz put on a strafe which blew in the end of the
culvert in which we were stationed. We rescued the pigeon basket from
the debris and discovered that an egg had appeared.

That evening, when the time came to send in the usual evening
"situation report," I was given the following message to transmit:

"Pigeon laid one egg; otherwise situation normal."--_D. Webster, 85
Highfield Avenue, N.W.11._

"No Earfkwikes"

On a bitterly cold, wet afternoon in February 1918 four privates and
a corporal were trying to take what shelter they could. One little
Cockney who had served in the Far East with the 10th Middlesex was
complaining about everything in general, but especially about the
idiocy of waging war in winter.

"Wot yer grumblin' at?" broke in the corporal, "you with yer fawncy
tyles of Inja? At any rate, there ain't no blinking moskeeters 'ere nor
'orrible malyria."

There was a break in the pleasantries as a big one came over. In the
subsequent explosion the little Cockney was fatally wounded.

"Corpril," the lad gasped, as he lay under that wintry sky, "you fergot
to menshun there ain't no bloomin' sun-stroke, _nor no earfkwikes,
neither_."

And he smiled--a delightful, whimsical smile--though the corporal's
"Sorry, son" was too late.--_V. Meik, 107 King Henry's Road, N.W.3._

A "Bow Bells" Heroine

For seven hours, with little intermission, the German airmen bombed a
camp not a hundred miles from Etaples. Of the handful of Q.M.A.A.C.s
stationed there, one was an eighteen-year-old middle-class girl,
high-strung, sensitive, not long finished with her convent school.
Another was Kitty, a Cockney girl of twenty, by occupation a
machine-hand, by vocation (missed) a comédienne, and, by heaven, a
heroine.

The high courage of the younger girl was cracking under the strain
of that ordeal by bombs. Kitty saw how it was with her, and for five
long hours she gave a recital of song, dialogue, and dance--most of it
improvised--while the bombs fell and the anti-aircraft guns screamed.
In all probability she saved the younger girl's reason.

When the last raider had dropped the last bomb, Kitty sank down, all
but exhausted, and for long cried and laughed hysterically. Hers was
not the least heroic part played upon that night.--_H. N., London, E._

Samson, but Shorn

During the German attack near Zillebeke in June 1916 a diminutive
Cockney, named Samson, oddly enough, received a scalp wound from a
shell splinter which furrowed a neat path through his hair.

The fighting was rather hot at the time, and this great-hearted little
Londoner carried on with the good work.

Some hours later came the order to fall back, and as the Cockney was
making his way down the remains of a trench, dazed and staggering, a
harassed sergeant, himself nearly "all in," ordered him to bear off a
couple of rifles and a box of ammunition.

This was the last straw. "Strike, sergeant," he said, weakly, "I
can't 'elp me name being Samson, but I've just 'ad me perishin' 'air
cut!"--"_Townie," R.A.F._

"What's Bred in the Bone----!"

When we were at Railway Wood, Ypres Salient, in 1916, "Muddy Lane,"
our only communication trench from the front line to the support line,
had been reduced to shapelessness by innumerable "heavies." Progress
in either direction entailed exposure to snipers in at least twelve
different places, and runners and messengers were, as our sergeant put
it, "tickled all the way."

In the support line one afternoon, hearing the familiar "Crack! Crack!
Crack!" I went to Muddy Lane junction to await the advertised visitor.
He arrived--a wiry little Cockney Tommy, with his tin hat dented in two
places and blood trickling from a bullet graze on the cheek.

In appreciation of the risk he had run I remarked, "Jerry seems to be
watching that bit!"

"Watching!" he replied. "'Struth! I felt like I was walking darn
Sarthend Pier naked!"--_Vernon Sylvaine, late Somerset L.I., Grand
Theatre, Croydon._

A Very Human Concertina

In March 1918, when Jerry was making his last great attack, I was in
the neighbourhood of Petit Barisis when three enemy bombing planes
appeared overhead and gave us their load. After all was clear I
overheard this dialogue between two diminutive privates of the 7th
Battalion, the London Regiment ("Shiny Seventh"), who were on guard
duty at the Q.M. Stores:

"You all right, Bill?"

"Yes, George!"

"Where'd you get to, Bill, when he dropped his eggs?"

"Made a blooming concertina of meself and got underneaf me blinkin' tin
'at!"--_F. A. Newman, 8 Levett Gardens, Ilford, Ex-Q.M.S., 8th London
(Post Office Rifles)._

A One-Man Army

The 47th London Division were holding the line in the Bluff sector,
near Ypres, early in 1917, and the 20th London Battalion were being
relieved on a very wet evening, as I was going up to the front line
with a working party.

Near Hell Fire Corner shells were coming over at about three-minute
intervals. One of the 20th London Lewis gunners was passing in full
fighting order, with fur coat, gum boots, etc., carrying his Lewis gun,
several drums of ammunition, and the inevitable rum jar.

One of my working party, a typical Cockney, surveyed him and said:

"Look! Blimey, he only wants a field gun under each arm and he'd be a
bally division."--_Lieut.-Col. J. H. Langton, D.S.O._

"Nah, Mate! Soufend!"

During the heavy rains in the summer of 1917 our headquarters dug-out
got flooded. So a fatigue party was detailed to bale it out.

"Long Bert" Smith was one of our baling squad. Because of his abnormal
reach, he was stationed at the "crab-crawl," his job being to throw the
water outside as we handed the buckets up to him.

It was a dangerous post. Jerry was pasting the whole area unmercifully
and shell splinters pounded on the dug-out roof every few seconds.

Twenty minutes after we had started work Bert got badly hit, and it was
some time before the stretcher-bearers could venture out to him. When
they did so he seemed to be unconscious.

"Poor blighter!" said one of the bearers. "Looks to be going West."

Bert, game to the last, opened his eyes and, seeing the canvas bucket
still convulsively clutched in his right fist, "Nah, mate!" he
grunted--"Soufend!"

But the stretcher-bearer was right.--_C. Vanon, 33 Frederick Street,
W.C.I._

"I Got 'Ole Nelson Beat!"

Several stretcher cases in the field dressing station at the foot of
"Chocolate Hill," Gallipoli, awaited removal by ambulance, including a
Cockney trooper in the dismounted Yeomanry.

He had a bandage round his head, only one eye was visible, and his left
arm was bound to his breast with a sandbag.

His rapid-fire of Cockney witticisms had helped to keep our spirits up
while waiting--he had a comment for everything. Suddenly a "strafe"
started, and a shrapnel shell shot its load among us.

Confusion, shouts, and moans--then a half-hysterical, half-triumphant
shout from the Cockney: "Lumme, one in the blinkin' leg this time. I
got 'ole Nelson beat at last!"--_J. Coomer (late R.E.), 31 Hawthorn
Avenue, Thornton Heath._

Two Kinds of Fatalist

A German sniper was busy potting at our men in a front-line trench at
Cambrai in March 1918. A Cockney "old sweat," observing a youngster
gazing over the parapet, asked him if he were a fatalist.

The youngster replied "Yes."

"So am I," said the Cockney, "but I believes in duckin'."--"_Brownie,"
Kensal Rise, N.W.10._

Double up, Beauty Chorus!

One summer afternoon in '15 some lads of the Rifle Brigade were
bathing in the lake in the grounds of the château at Elverdinghe, a
mile or so behind the line at Ypres, when German shells began to land
uncomfortably near. The swimmers immediately made for the land, and,
drawing only boots on their feet, dashed for the cellar in the château.

As they hurried into the shelter a Cockney sergeant bellowed, "Nah
then, booty chorus: double up an' change for the next act!"--_G E.
Roberts, M.C. (late Genl. List, att'd 21st Divn. Signal Co.), 28
Sunbury Gardens, Mill Hill, N.W.7._

The Theatre of War

During the battle of Arras, Easter 1917, we were lying out in front
of our wire in extended order waiting for our show to begin. Both our
artillery and that of Fritz were bombarding as hard as they could. It
was pouring with rain, and everybody was caked in mud.

Our platoon officer, finding he had a good supply of chocolate, and
realising that rations might not be forthcoming for some time, crept
along the line and gave us each a piece.

As he handed a packet to one cheerful Cockney he was asked, "Wot abaht
a programme, sir?"--_W. B. Finch (late London Regiment), 155 High Road,
Felixstowe._

"It's the Skivvy's 'Arf Day Orf"

Easter Monday, April 9, 1917. Night. Inches of snow and a weird silence
everywhere after the turmoil of the day. Our battalion is held up in
front of Monchy-le-Preux during the battle of Arras. I am sent out with
a patrol to reconnoitre one of our tanks that is crippled and astride
the German wire 300 yards out.

It is ticklish work, because the crew may be dead or wounded and Fritz
in occupation. Very warily we creep around the battered monster and
presently I tap gingerly on one of the doors. No response. We crawl to
the other side and repeat the tapping process. At last, through the
eerie silence, comes a low, hoarse challenge.

"Oo are yer?"

"Fusiliers!" I reply, as I look up and see a tousled head sticking
through a hole in the roof.

"Ho!" exclaims the voice above, "I'll 'ave ter come dahn and let yer in
meself, it's the skivvy's 'arf day orf!"

The speaker proved to have a shattered arm--among other things--and was
the sole survivor of the crew.--_D. K., Fulham, S.W.6._

Cricket on the Somme

"Spider" Webb was a Cockney--from Stepney, I believe--who was with us
on the Somme in 1916. He was a splendid cricketer.

We had had a very stiff time for six or seven hours and were resting
during a lull in the firing. Then suddenly Jerry sent over five shells.
After a pause another shell came over and burst near to "Spider" and
his two pals.

When the smoke cleared I went across to see what had happened.
"Spider's" two pals were beyond help. The Cockney was propping himself
up with his elbows surveying the scene.

"What's happened, Webb?" I said. "Blimey! What's happened?" was the
reply. "One over--two bowled" (and, looking down at his leg)--"and I'm
stumped." Then he fainted.--_George Franks, M.C. (late Lieut., Royal
Artillery), Ilford, Essex._

M'Lord, of Hoxton

We called him "M'lord." He came from Hoxton--"That's where they
make 'em," he used to say. He was a great asset to us, owing to the
wonderful way in which he went out and "won" things.

One night, near Amiens, in 1916, "M'lord" said, "I'm going aht to see
wot some uvver mob has got too much of." One or two of us offered to
accompany him, but he refused, saying, "You bloomin' elephants 'ud be
bahnd to give the gime away."

About three hours later, when we were beginning to get anxious, we
saw him staggering in with a badly wounded German, who was smoking a
cigarette.

Seeing us, and very much afraid of being thought soft-hearted, "M'lord"
plumped old Fritz down on the fire-step and said very fiercely, "Don't
you dare lean on me wif impunity, or wif a fag in your mouf."

Jerry told us later that he had lain badly wounded in a deserted
farmhouse for over two days, and "M'lord" had almost carried him for
over a mile.

"M'lord" was killed later on in the war. Our battalion was the 7th
Batt. Royal Fusiliers (London Regt.)--_W. A., Windsor._

The Tall Man's War

In our platoon was a very tall chap who was always causing us great
amusement because of his height. Naturally he showed his head above the
parapet more often than the rest of us, and whenever he did so _ping_
would come a bullet from a sniper and down our tall chum would drop in
an indescribably funny acrobatic fashion.

The climax came at Delville Wood in August 1916, when, taking over the
line, we found the trench knocked about in a way that made it most
uncomfortable for all of us. Here our tall friend had to resort to his
acrobatics more than ever: at times he would crawl on all fours to
"dodge 'em." One shot, however, caused him to dive down more quickly
than usual--right into a sump hole in the trench.

Recovering himself, he turned to us and, with an expression of
unutterable disgust, exclaimed, "You blokes can laugh; anybody 'ud fink
I was the only blighter in this war."--_C. Bragg (late Rifle Brigade,
14th Division), 61 Hinton Road, Herne Hill, S.E.24._

Germany Didn't Know This

One night in June 1916, on the Somme, we were ordered to leave our line
and go over and dig an advance trench. We returned to our trench before
dawn, and shortly afterwards my chum, "Pussy" Harris, said to me, "I
have left my rifle in No Man's Land."

"Never mind," I said, "there are plenty more. Don't go over there: the
snipers are sure to get you."

But my advice was all in vain; he insisted on going. When I asked him
why he wanted that particular rifle he said, "Well, the barrel is bent,
_and it can shoot round corners_."

He went over....

That night I saw the regimental carpenter going along the trench with
a roughly-made wooden cross inscribed "R.I.P. Pte. Harris."--_W. Ford,
613 Becontree Avenue, Chadwell Heath, Essex._

Better than the Crystal Palace

One night, while going round the line at Loos, I was accompanied by
Sergeant Winslow, who was a London coster before the war.

We were examining the field of fire of a Lewis gun, when the Germans
opened up properly on our sector. Clouds of smoke rose from the
surrounding trenches, crash after crash echoed around the old Loos
crassier, and night was turned into day by Verey lights sent up by both
sides.

Suddenly a lad of 18, just out, turned to Sergeant Winslow, and in a
quivering voice said: "My God, sergeant, this is awful!"

Sergeant Winslow replied: "Now, look 'ere, me lad, you'd have paid 'alf
a dollar to take your best gal to see this at the Crystal Palace before
the war. What are yer grousing abaht?"--_A. E. Grant (late 17th Welch
Regt.), 174 Broom Road, Teddington._

A Short Week-end

One Saturday evening I was standing by my dug-out in Sausage Valley,
near Fricourt, when a draft of the Middlesex Regt. halted for the guide
to take them up to the front line where the battalion was. I had a chat
with one of the lads, who told me he had left England on the Friday.

They moved off, and soon things got lively; a raid and counter-raid
started.

Later the casualties began to come down, and the poor chaps were lying
around outside the 1st C.C.S. (which was next to my dug-out). On a
stretcher was my friend of the draft. He was pretty badly hit. I gave
him a cigarette and tried to cheer him by telling him he would soon be
back in England. With a feeble smile he said, "Blimey, sir, this 'as
been a short week-end, ain't it?"--_Pope Stamper (15th Durham L.I.),
188A Upper Richmond Road, East Sheen, S.W.14._

Simultaneous Chess

At Aubers Ridge, near Fromelles, in October 1918, my chum and I were
engrossed in a game of chess, our chessboard being a waterproof sheet
with the squares painted on it, laid across a slab of concrete from a
destroyed pill-box.

The Germans began to drop 5·9's with alarming regularity about 150
yards to our rear, temporarily distracting our attention from the game.

Returning to the game, I said to my chum, "Whose move, Joe?"

Before he could reply a shell landed with a deafening roar within a few
yards of us, but luckily did not explode (hence this story).

His reply was: "Ours"--and we promptly did.--_B. Greenfield, M.M. (late
Cpl. R.F.A., 47th (London) Division), L.C.C. Parks Dept., Tooting Bec
Common, S.W._

Fire-step Philosophy

On July 1, 1916, I happened to be among those concerned in the
attack on the German line in front of Serre, near Beaumont Hamel.