Chapter 2

Our onslaught at that point was not conspicuously successful, but we
managed to establish ourselves temporarily in what had been the Boche
front line, to the unconcealed indignation of the previous tenants.

During a short lull in the subsequent proceedings I saw one of my
company--an elderly private whose melancholy countenance and lank black
moustache will ever remain engraved on my memory--seated tranquilly on
the battered fire-step, engrossed in a certain humorous journal.

Meeting my astonished eye, he observed in a tone of mild resentment:
"This 'ere's a dud, sir. 'S not a joke in it--not what _I_ calls a
joke, anyway."

So saying, he rose, pocketed the paper, and proceeded placidly to get
on with the war.--_K. R. G. Browne, 6B Winchester Road, N.W.3._

"Teddie" Gets the Last Word

Sergeant "Teddie" was rather deaf, but I am inclined to think that this
slight affliction enabled him to pull our legs on occasions.

Our company of the London Regiment had just taken over a part of the
line known as the Paris Redoubt, and on the first evening in the sector
the company commander, the second in command, Sergeant "Teddie," and
myself had a stroll along the observation line, which was just forward
of the front line, in order to visit the various posts.

Suddenly a salvo of shells came over and one burst perilously near us.
Three of the party adopted the prone position in record time, but on
our looking round "Teddie" was seen to be still standing and apparently
quite unconcerned.

"Why the dickens didn't you get down?" said one of the party, turning
to him. "It nearly had us that time."

"Time?" said "Teddie," looking at his watch. "A quarter to seven,
sir."--_J. S. O. (late C.S.M., 15th London Regt.)._

"Nobbler's" Grouse

Just before the battle of Messines we of the 23rd Londons were holding
the Bluff sector to the right of Hill 60. "Stand down" was the order,
and the sergeant was coming round with the rum.

"Nobbler," late of the Mile End Road, was watching him in joyful
anticipation when ... a whizz-bang burst on the parapet, hurling men
in all directions. No one was hurt ... but the precious rum jar was
shattered.

"Nobbler," sitting up in the mud and moving his tin hat from his
left eye the better to gaze upon the ruin, murmured bitterly:
"Louvain--Rheims--the _Lusitania_--and now our perishin' rum issue.
Jerry, you 'eathen, you gets worse and worse. But, my 'at, won't you
cop it when 'Aig knows abaht this!"--_E. H. Oliver, Lanark House,
Woodstock, Oxford._

Dust in 'Indenburg's Sauerkraut!

To all those thousands who remember Shrapnel Corner and the sign:
"DRIVE SLOWLY! SPEED CAUSES DUST WHICH DRAWS THE ENEMY'S SHELL FIRE"
this incident will appeal.

I had rounded the corner into Zillebeke Road with a load of ammunition,
and had gone about 200 yards along the road, when Fritz let go with a
few shells.

"Rum Ration" (my mate's nick-name) looked out of the lorry to observe
where the shells were falling.

"Nah we're for it," he exclaimed, "our dust must 'ave gorn into ole
'Indenberg's blinkin' sauerkraut."--_J. H. Clarke, ex-Pte., M.T.A.S.C._

A Valiant Son of London

Crack! Crack! Crack!--and men falling with each crack. It is terrible;
we are faced with mud, misery, and despair. A German machine-gun is
taking its toll.

It seems impossible to get at the gunners, and we spend hours lying
in wait. This waiting proves too much for one of us; single-handed
he takes a chance and crawls away from my side. I keep him covered;
minutes roll by; they seem hours, days; and, as he is now out of sight,
I begin to give up hope for him, my Cockney pal.

Some instinct warns me to keep watch, and I am rewarded. I feel my eyes
start from my head as I see the approaching procession--four Germans,
hands above their heads, and my pal following, carrying the machine-gun
across his shoulders. I marvel at his courage and wonder how it was
done ... but this I am never to know. As I leap from the trench to give
him assistance I realise his number is nearly up. He is covered with
blood.

I go to relieve him of his burden, and in that moment one of the
Germans, sensing that my pal is almost out, turns on us with his
revolver. We are held at the pistol-point and I know I must make a
desperate bid to save my pal, who has done his best in an act which
saved a portion of our line.

I drop the gun and, with a quick movement, I am able to trip the
nearest German, but he is quick too and manages to stick me (and I
still carry the mark of his bayonet in my side).

The realisation I am still able to carry on, that life is sweet, holds
me up, and, with a pluck that showed his determination and Cockney
courage, my pal throws himself into a position in which he can work the
gun. _Crack!_ and _Crack!_ again: the remaining Germans are brought
down.

I am weak with loss of blood, but I am still able to drag my pal with
me, and, aided by his determination, we get through. It seems we are at
peace with the world. But, alas, when only five yards from our trenches
a shell bursts beside us; I have a stinging pain in my shoulder and
cannot move! Machine-guns and rifles are playing hell.

My pal, though mortally wounded, still tries to drag me to our trench.
He reaches the parapet ... _Zip_ ... _Zip_. The first has missed, but
the second gets him. It is a fatal shot, and, though in the greatest
agony, he manages to give me a message to his folks....

He died at my side, unrewarded by man. The stretcher-bearer told me
that he had five bullet-holes in him. He lies in France to-day, and I
owe my life to him, and again I pay homage to his memory and to him
as one of England's greatest heroes--a Valiant Son of London.--_John
Batten (late Rifleman, 13 Bn., K.R.R.C.), 50 Sussex Gardens, Hyde Park,
W.2._

A Hint to the Brigadier

Alec Lancaster was a showman at the White City in pre-war days. Short
in stature, he possessed a mighty heart, and in the ghastly days in
front of Poelcapelle he made history as the sergeant who took command
of a brigadier.

The brigadier had been on a visit to the front line to inspect a new
belt of wire and, passing the ---- headquarters, paused to look around.

Just then a few shells came over in quick succession and things looked
nasty.

Alec Lancaster took command and guided the brigadier somewhat forcibly
into a dug-out with the laconic, "Nah, then. We don't want any dead
brigadiers rahnd 'ere."--_Geo. B. Fuller, 146 Rye Road, Hoddesdon,
Herts._

"Salvage? Yus, Me!"

On the third day of the German offensive in March 1918 a certain
brigade of the R.F.A. was retiring on Péronne.

A driver, hailing from London town, was in charge of the cook's cart,
which contained officers' kits belonging to the headquarters' staff.

As he was making his way along a "pip-squeak" came over and burst
practically beneath the vehicle and blew the whole issue to pieces. The
driver had a miraculous escape.

When he recovered from the shock he ruefully surveyed the debris, and
after deciding that nothing could be done, continued his journey on
foot into Péronne.

Just outside that town he was met by the Adjutant, who said, "Hullo,
driver, what's happened--where's cook's cart with the kits?"

DRIVER: Blown up, sir.

ADJUTANT (_anxiously_): Anything salved?

DRIVER: Yus, sir, me!--_F. H. Seabright, 12 Broomhill Road, Goodmayes,
Essex._

Almost Self-inflicted

The London (47th) Division, after a strenuous time on the Somme in
September 1916, were sent to Ypres for a quiet (?) spell, the depleted
ranks being made up by reserves from home who joined us _en route_.

The 18th Battalion (London Irish), were informed on taking the line
that their opponents were men of the very same German regiment as they
had opposed and vanquished at High Wood.

Soon after "stand down" the following morning Rifleman S---- mounted
the fire-step and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted, "Compree
'Igh Wood, Fritz?"

The words had hardly left his lips when _zip_, a sniper's bullet
knocked his tin hat off his head and Rifleman S---- found himself lying
on the duckboards with blood running down his face.

Picking himself up, he calmly gathered his souvenirs together and said
as he made his way out, "Cheerio, boys, I've got a Blighty one, but
don't tell the colonel it was self-inflicted."--_A. C. B., Ilford,
Essex._

Nobby's 1,000 to 1 Chance

Our division (the Third) was on its way from the line for the
long-looked-for rest. We were doing it by road in easy stages.

During a halt a pack animal (with its load of two boxes of "·303")
became restive and bolted. One box fell off and was being dragged
by the lashing. Poor old Nobby Clarke, who had been out since Mons,
stopped the box with his leg, which was broken below the knee.

As he was being carried away one of the stretcher-bearers said, "Well,
Nobby, you've got a Blighty one at last."

"Yus," said Nobby; "but it took a fousand rahnds to knock me
over."--_H. Krepper (late 5th Fusiliers), 62 Anerley Road, Upper
Norwood, S.E. 19._

That Derby Scheme

The Commanding Officer of a Territorial battalion was wounded in both
hands during the third battle of Gaza in 1917. He had much service to
his credit, was a lieutenant-colonel of over two years' standing, had
been wounded twice before, and held the D.S.O.

He pluckily remained with his unit for thirty-six hours. Then, worn
out with lack of sleep, pain, and loss of blood, and filled with
disappointment at having to leave his battalion still in the fight, he
trudged back to the field ambulance.

His sufferings, which had aged his appearance, and the Tommy's tunic
which he wore in action, apparently misled a party of 10th London men
whom he passed. They looked sympathetically at him, and one said, "Poor
old blighter, _'e ought never to 'ave been called up_."--_Captain J.
Finn, M.C., Constitutional Club, W.C.2._

"Shoo-Shoo-Shooting"

There were no proper trenches in front of Armentières in early December
1914, and a machine gun section was doing its best to build an
emplacement and cover. It was in the charge of a young Londoner who in
times of excitement stuttered badly.

Not being satisfied with the position of one sandbag, he hopped over
those already in place, and in full view of Jerry (it was daylight
too), began to adjust the sandbag that displeased him.

Jerry immediately turned a machine gun on him, but the young officer
finished his work, and then stood up.

Looking towards Jerry as the section yelled to him to come down,
he stuttered angrily. "I b-b-be-lieve the bli-bli-blighters are
shoo-shoo-shoo-shoo-ting at me." At that moment someone grabbed his
legs and pulled him down. It was a fine example of cool nerve.--_T. D.,
Victoria, S.W.1._

Ancient Britons?--No!

It happened late in 1917 in Tank Avenue, just on the left of
Monchy-le-Preux. It was a foul night of rain, wind, sleet, and
whizz-bangs.

My battalion had just been relieved, and we were making our way out as
best we could down the miry communication trench. Every now and again
we had to halt and press ourselves against the trench side to allow a
straggling working party of the K.R.R.s to pass up into the line.

Shells were falling all over the place, and suddenly Fritz dropped one
right into the trench a few bays away from where I was.

I hurried down and found two of the working party lying on the
duckboards. They were both wounded, and one of them had his tunic
ripped off him by the force of the explosion. What with his tattered
uniform--and what remained of it--and his face and bare chest smothered
in mud, he was a comical though pathetic sight. He still clung to his
bundle of pickets he had been carrying and he sat up and looked round
with a puzzled expression.

One of our sergeants--a rather officious fellow--pushed himself forward.

"Who are you?" he asked. "K.R.R.s?"

"'Course," retorted the half-naked Cockney. "Oo d'ye fink we
was--Ancient Britons?"--_E. Gordon Petrie (late Cameron Highlanders),
"Hunky-Dory," Demesne Road, Wallington, Surrey._

Desert Island--Near Bullecourt

Between Ecoust and Bullecourt in January 1918 my platoon was passing
a mine crater which was half-full of water when suddenly Jerry sent
one over. Six of our fellows were wounded, and one of them, a Bow Road
Cockney, was hurled into the crater.

He struggled to his feet and staggered towards a pile of rubble that
rose above the muddy water like an island. Arrived there, he sat down
and looked round him in bewilderment. Then: "Blimey," he muttered,
"Robinson ruddy Crusoe!"--_E. McQuaid (late R.S.F.), 22 Grove Road,
S.W.9._

"Tiger's" Little Trick

On October 11-12, 1914, during the Mons retreat, a small party of 2nd
Life Guards were told off as outpost on the main road, near Wyngene,
Belgium. After we had tied our horses behind a farmhouse at the side of
the road, we settled down to await the arrival of "Jerry."

Time went slowly, and one of our troopers suggested that we all put a
half-franc into an empty "bully" tin, and the first one of us who shot
a German was to take the lot. To this we all agreed.

It was about midnight when, suddenly, out of the shadows, rode a German
Death's-head Hussar. We all raised our rifles as one man, but before we
could shoot "Tiger" Smith, one of our real Cockney troopers, shouted,
"_Don't shoot! Don't shoot!_" During our momentary hesitation "Tiger's"
rifle rang out, and off rolled the German into the road.

Upon our indignant inquiry as to why he had shouted "Don't shoot,"
"Tiger" quietly said, "Nah, then, none of your old buck; just hand
over that tin of 'alf francs I've won."--_Fred Bruty (late Corporal
of Horse, 2nd Life Guards), City of London Police Dwellings, No. 3,
Ferndale Court, Ferndale Road, S.W.9._

Raffle Draw To-night!

Near St. Quentin, in October 1918, I was in charge of a section that
was detailed to cross a railway to establish communication with troops
on the other side. Unfortunately we were spotted by a German machine
gunner, who made things very hot for us, two men being quickly hit. We
managed, however, to reach a small mound where, by lying quite flat, we
were comparatively safe.

Glancing in the direction from which we had come, I saw a man whom I
recognised as "Topper" Brown, our company runner, dashing as hard as he
could for the cover where we had sheltered.

"How do, corp?" he said when he came up. "Any of your blokes like to go
in a raffle for this watch?" (producing same). "'Arf a franc a time;
draw to-night in St. Quentin."--_S. Hills (late Rifle Brigade), 213,
Ripple Road, Barking._

Exit the General's Dessert

In the early part of the War we were dug in between the Marne and the
Aisne with H.Q. situated in a trench along which were growing several
fruit trees which the troops were forbidden to touch.

The Boche were shelling with what was then considered to be heavy
stuff, and we were all more or less under cover, when a large one hit
the back of the trench near H.Q.

After the mess staff had recovered from the shock it was noticed
that apples were still falling from a tree just above, and the mess
corporal, his ears and eyes still full of mud, was heard to say: "Thank
'eaven, I shan't have to climb that perishin' tree and get the old
man's bloomin' dessert to-night."--_E. Adamson, Overseas Club, St.
James's._

"Try on this Coat, Sir"

In September 1916, while with the 17th K.R.R.C., I lost my overcoat
in a billet fire at Mailly-Maillet and indented for a new one, which,
however, failed to turn up.

We moved to Hebuterne, where the line was very lively and the working
parties used to be strafed with "Minnies" all night.

One night, while on patrol, with nerves on the jump, I was startled to
hear a voice at my elbow say, "Try this on."

It was the Q.M.'s corporal with the overcoat!

I solemnly tried it on there and then in No Man's Land, about 300 yards
in front of our front line and not very far from the German line.

The corporal quite casually explained that he had some difficulty in
finding me out there in the dark, but he did not want the trouble of
carrying stuff out of the line when we moved!--_S. W. Chuckerbutty,
(L.R.B. and K.R.R.C.), 3 Maida Hill West, London, W.2._

On the Kaiser's Birthday

In the Brickstacks at Givenchy, 1916. The Germans were celebrating the
Kaiser's birthday by putting a steady succession of "Minnies" into and
around our front line trench.

Just when the strain was beginning to tell and nerves were getting
jumpy, a little Cockney corporal jumped on the fire-step and, shaking
his fist at the Germans forty yards away, bawled, "You wait till it's
_my_ ruddy birthday!"

Fritz didn't wait two seconds, but the little corporal had got his
laugh and wasn't taking a curtain.--_"Bison" (late R.W.F.)._

"Chuck us yer Name Plate!"

In June 1917 we were ordered to lay a line to the front line at "Plug
Street". Fritz started to bombard us with whizz-bangs, and my pal and
I took cover behind a heap of sandbags, noticing at the same time that
all the infantrymen were getting away from the spot.

When things quietened down we heard a Cockney voice shouting, "Hi,
mate! Chuck us yer name plate (identification disc). Y're sitting up
against our bomb store."--_S. Doust (late Signal Section, "F" Battery,
R.H.A.), 53 Wendover Road, Well Hall, Eltham, S.E.9._

To Hold His Hand

While on our way to relieve the 1st R.W.F.s, who were trying their
utmost to hold a position in front of Mametz Wood, it was necessary to
cross a road, very much exposed to Jerry's machine guns.

A burst of firing greeted our attempt, and when we succeeded, a Cockney
who had a flesh wound caused a smile by saying, "Go back? Not me. Next
time I crosses a road I wants a blinking copper ter 'old me 'and?"--_G.
Furnell, 57a Southwold Road, Upper Clapton, E.5._

The New Landlord

During an advance on the Somme in 1916 my company was rushed up to the
captured trenches to search the dug-outs and to bring in the prisoners.

My Cockney pal was evidently enjoying himself. As he went from one
dug-out to another he was singing:

"Orl that I want is lo-ove,
Orl that I want is yew."

Entering one dug-out, however, his voice suddenly changed. In the
dug-out were three Germans. Showing them the point of his bayonet,
the Cockney roared: "Nah, then, aht of it; 'op it. I'm lan'lord 'ere
nah."--_C. Grimwade, 26 Rotherhithe New Road, Rotherhithe, S.E.16._

"Out of Bounds" in the Line

One night in October '14, in the neighbourhood of Herlies, "Ginger," a
reservist, was sent out to call in the men of a listening post.

Dawn came, but no "Ginger" returned, and as he did not turn up during
the day he was given up for lost.

Soon after dusk, however, a very worn and fed-up "Ginger" returned. We
gathered that he had suddenly found himself in the German lines, had
had a "dust-up," had got away, and had lain out in No Man's Land until
dusk allowed him to get back.

The company officer was inclined to be cross with him, and asked him,
"But what made you go so far as the enemy position?"

"Ginger" scratched his head, and then replied, "Well, sir, nobody said
anyfink to me abaht it being aht o' bahnds."--_T. L. Barling (late
Royal Fusiliers), 21 Lockhart Street, Bow, E.3._

Epic of the Whistling Nine

On May 14, 1917, the 2/2nd Battalion of the London Regiment occupied
the support lines in front of Bullecourt. "A" company's position was
a thousand yards behind the front line trenches. At 2 p.m. the enemy
began to subject the whole area to an intense bombardment which lasted
more than thirteen hours.

In the middle of the bombardment (which was described by the
G.O.C.-in-Chief as "the most intense bombardment British troops had had
to withstand"), No. 3 platoon of "A" company was ordered to proceed to
the front line with bombs for the battalion holding it. The platoon
consisted of 31 N.C.O.s and men and one officer.

* * * * *

The only means of communication between the support and front lines was
a trench of an average depth of two feet. Along this trench the platoon
proceeded, carrying between them forty boxes of Mills bombs. Every few
yards there were deep shell holes to cross; tangled telephone wires
tripped the men; M. G. bullets swept across the trench, and heavy
shells obtained direct hits frequently, while shrapnel burst overhead
without cessation.

A man was hit every few minutes; those nearest him rendered what aid
was possible, unless he was already dead; his bombs were carried on by
another.

* * * * *

Of the thirty-one who started, twenty-one were killed or wounded; the
remainder, having taken an hour and a half to cover the 1,000 yards,
reached the front line _with the forty boxes of bombs intact_.

They were ordered to remain, and thus found themselves assisting in
repulsing an attack made by the 3rd Lehr Regiment of Prussian Guards,
and two of the men succeeded in wounding and capturing the commanding
officer of the attacking regiment.

Of the ten N.C.O.s and men who were left, a lance-corporal was blown
to pieces in the trench; the remainder stayed in the front line until
they were relieved four days later. On their way back, through Vaux
Vraucourt, they picked clusters of May blossom, and with these in
their equipment and rifle barrels, marched into the transport lines
whistling.--_Captain, London Regiment._

Tale of a Cook and a "Crump"

Our cook was having the time of his life. The transition from trench
warfare to more or less open warfare in late October 1918 brought with
it a welcome change of diet in the form of pigs and poultry from the
deserted farms, and cook had captured a nice young porker and two brace
of birds.

From the pleasant aroma which reached us from the cottage as we lay on
our backs watching a German aeroplane we knew that cook would soon be
announcing the feast was ready.

Suddenly from the blue came a roar like that of an express train. We
flung ourselves into the ditch.... _K-k-k-k-r-r-r-ump!_

When the smoke and dust cleared away the cottage was just a rubbish
heap, but there was cook, most miraculously crawling out from beneath a
debris of rafters, beams, and bricks!

"Ruddy 'orseplay!" was the philosopher's comment.--_I. O., 19 Burnell
Road, Sutton, Surrey._

"---- Returns the Penny"

When my husband commanded the 41st Division in France he was much
struck by the ready wit of a private of the Royal Fusiliers (City of
London Regiment) in a tight corner.

A bomb landed in a crowded dug-out while the men were having a meal.
Everyone stared aghast at this ball of death except one Tommy, who
promptly picked it up and flung it outside saying: "Grite stren'th
returns the penny, gentlemen!" as he returned to his bully beef.--_Lady
Lawford, London, S.W.1._

"In Time for the Workman's?"

A night wire-cutting party in the Arras sector had been surprised by
daylight. All the members of the party (21st London Regiment) crawled
back safely except one Cockney rifleman.

When we had reached the trenches and found that he was missing, we were
a bit upset. Would he have to lie out in No Man's Land all day? Would
he be spotted by snipers?

After a while our doubts were answered by a terrific burst from the
German machine guns. Some of the bolder spirits peered over the top of
the "bags" and saw our Cockney pal rushing, head down, towards our line
while streams of death poured around him.

He reached our parapet, fell down amongst us in the mud, uninjured,
and immediately jumped to his feet and said, "Am I in time for the
workman's?"--_D. F., Acton, W.3._

A Lovely Record

The Time: March 1916.

The Scene: The Talus des Zouaves--a narrow valley running behind Vimy
Ridge from Neuville St. Vaast through Souchez. The weather is bleak,
and there is a sticky drizzle--it is towards dusk.

The Man: A native of "somewhere just awf the 'Bricklayers Arms'--you
know where that is, sir." Height, just over 5 feet; complexion, red;
hair, red and not over tidy; appearance, awkward; clothes don't seem
to fit quite. Distinguishing marks--a drooping red moustache almost
concealing a short clay pipe, stuck bowl sideways in the corner of the
mouth. On the face there is a curious--whimsical--wistful, in fact, a
Cockney expression.

The Occasion: The Boche is putting down his evening "strafe"--an
intense and very accurate barrage laid like a curtain on the southern
slope of the valley. Our hero, his hands closed round the stock of
his rifle held between his knees, is squatting unconcernedly on the
wet ground in the open on the northern side of the valley, where only
a shell with a miraculous trajectory could have scored a direct hit,
watching the shells burst almost every second not a great distance
away. The din and pandemonium are almost unbearable. Fragments of H.E.
and shrapnel are dropping very near.

The Remark: Removing his pipe to reveal the flicker of a smile, he
remarked, in his inimitable manner: "_Lor' blimey, guv'nor, wouldn't
this sahnd orl rite on a grammerphone?_"--_Gordon Edwards, M.C.
(Captain, late S.W.B.), "Fairholm," 48 Alexandra Road, Wimbledon,
S.W.19._

Logic in No Man's Land

Fritz had been knocking our wire about, and a party of us were detailed
to repair it. One of our party, a trifle more windy than the rest, kept
ducking at the stray bullets that were whistling by. Finally, 'Erb,
who was holding the coil of wire, said to him, "Can't yer stop that
bobbin' abaht? They won't 'urt yer unless they 'its yer."--_C. Green,
44 Monson Road, New Cross, S.E.14._

Fousands ... and Millions

It was on the Mons-Condé Canal, on the afternoon of August 23, 1914.
Our artillery had just opened up when a tiny Cockney trumpeter, who
could not have been more than 15 years old, came galloping up to us
with a message.

"How are the gunners going on, boy?" said my captain.

"Knocking 'em down in fousands, sir," replied the lad.

"Good," said the captain.

"Yus, and they're coming on in millions," replied the boy as he rode
away to his battery.

A plucky kid, that.--_W. H. White, 29 Clive Road, Colliers Wood,
S.W.19._

Lost: A Front Line

Two or three American officers were attached to our brigade H.Q. on the
Somme front.

We were doing our usual four days in the front line when one morning
an American officer emerged from the communication trench. Just then
the Germans opened out with everything from a 5·9 to rifle grenade. We
squeezed into funk-holes in the bottom of the trench. Presently there
was a lull, and the American officer was heard to ask, "Say, boys,
where is the front line in these parts?"

"Tich," a little Cockney from Euston way, extracted himself from
the earth, and exclaimed, "Strike! j'ear that? Wot jer fink this
is--a blinkin' rifle range?"--_W. Wheeler (late 23rd Battalion Royal
Fusiliers), 55 Turney Road, Dulwich, S.E._

"If Our Typist Could See Me Nah"

Imagine (if you can) the mud on the Somme at its worst. A Royal Marine
Artilleryman (a very junior clerk from "Lambeff") was struggling up the
gentle slope behind Trones Wood with a petrol tin of precious water
in either hand. A number of us were admiring his manly efforts from a
distance when the sudden familiar shriek was heard, followed by the
equally familiar bang.

We saw him thrown to the ground as the whizz-bang burst but a few feet
from him, and we rushed down, certain that he had "got his." Imagine
our surprise on being greeted by an apparition that had struggled to
a sitting posture, liberally plastered with mud, and a wound in the
shoulder, who hoarsely chuckled and said: "If our typist could see me
_nah_!"--_C. H. F. (W/Opr. attached R.M.A. Heavy Brigade)._

Q! Q! Queue!

The scene was an observation post in the top of a (late) colliery
chimney, 130 ft. up, on the outskirts of Béthune, during the last
German offensive of the War.

A great deal of heavy shelling was in progress in our immediate
vicinity, and many of Fritz's "high-velocities" were screaming past our
lofty pinnacle, which was swaying with the concussion. At any moment a
direct hit was possible.

My Cockney mate had located a hostile battery, and after some
difficulty with the field telephone was giving the bearing to
headquarters.

Faults in the line seemed to prevent him from finishing his message,
which consisted of giving the map square (Q 20) being "strafed." The
"Q" simply would not reach the ears of the corporal at headquarters,
and after many fruitless efforts, using "Q" words, I heard him burst
out in exasperation: "Q!