human
It's a wee deoch an' doruis, Jist a wee drap, that's a',
gpt
with ludicrous consequences to the pronunciation! According to
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Joe, of the 2nd Royal Scots, the favorite songs in the trenches or round the camp-fire are
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Never Mind, and
human
The Last Boat is leaving for Home.
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Hitchy Koo is another favorite, and was being sung in the midst of a German attack.
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One man near me was wounded, says a comrade,
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Some of our men have made wonderful practise with the rifle, and they are beginning to fancy themselves as marksmen. If they don't hit something every time they think they ought to see a doctor about it.... Artillery fire, however, is the deadliest thing out, and it takes a lot of nerve to stand it. The Germans keep up an infernal din from morning till far into the night; but they don't do half as much damage as you would think, though it is annoying to have all that row going on when you're trying to write home or make up the regimental accounts.
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Excuse this scrawl, writes one soldier,
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Another concludes:
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Well, mother, I must close now. The bullets are a bit too thick for letter-writing. To a young engineer the experience was so strange that he describes it as
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One of our men, he relates,
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We thought they were Germans, one gunner related,
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Where's the sporting news? asked the artilleryman as he glanced over the pages.
human
Shot away in the war, replied Mr. Ashton.
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What! exclaimed Tommy,
human
gpt
We are all in good spirits, writes a bombardier in the 44th Battery, Royal Artillery,
human
gpt
I got this, said a Gordon Highlander, referring to his wound,
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In spite of all their swank, he adds,
gpt
Oh, it's not that. I lost my pipe in the last blooming charge. In a letter from the front, published in the _Glasgow Herald_, this passage occurs:
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Our fellows have signed the pledge because Kitchener wants them to. But they all say, 'God help the Germans, when we get hold of them for making us teetotal.'
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is another source of amusement. Whenever artillery or rifle fire sweeps over their trenches some facetious Tommy is sure to shout,
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Are we downhearted? and is met with a resounding
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No!
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Our men lie in the trenches and play marbles with the bullets from shrapnel shells, writes one of the Royal Engineers;
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says a letter from a cheery artilleryman; and Mr. W.L. Pook (Godalming), who is with one of the field post-offices, declares that things are going so badly with
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that
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I've bet X---- a new hat that I'll be home by Christmas.
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We have already picked up a good deal in the way of German souvenirs, says one wag;
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The British Army, indeed, is an army of sportsmen. Every man must have his game, his friendly wager, his joke, and his song. As one officer told his men:
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You are a lively lot of beggars. You don't seem to realize that we're at war.
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I am feeling awfully well, he writes,