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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. 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.
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.).
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.
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
