A Fortunate One
I am one of the fortunate ones. I was always told I would never be killed, and I begin to think I was born under a lucky star. I have been engaged in driving motor-wagons to and from the men lying in the trenches fighting our battle on the Aisne. Certainly I have seen very little of the fighting, but the roar of the big guns has been my companion night and day. I had not been on the job four days before I lost my first wagon, which I named the “London, Croydon, and Purley Growler.” On my second journey to the field of operations we were ambushed by a body of Germans, who pounced out of a wood, but not one of them got back to tell the tale. It was a perfect eye-opener for me and a nerve-tester, I can tell you. We were just congratulating ourselves when crash went a shell on to the bonnet. How I escaped I don’t know. My growler was no good; she was a complete wreck. After transferring the load to another lorry we abandoned her and got away, but not before several of our fellows were winged: Private W. G. Davies, A.S.C.