Going Home!
It was wonderful how cheerful the wounded were. One poor fellow who had been shot in the head, and hit by a shrapnel bullet in the mouth—he was apparently dying—pointed out to me another man, badly wounded, remarking, “That poor bloke is going home; he will be gone before me”: Pte. W. Webb, Royal Army Medical Corps.
Like Jackie!
I was in a cottage in France, in the country, Tuesday night, to cook a bit of grub—we had had none all day—and while I was doing it the woman cried bitterly, as her husband was at the front, but I tried to cheer her up as best I could; she had a boy like Jackie, so I told her I was married and had a wife and child, and she cried worse still then: Private Davies, of Ipswich.
Lit His “Fag”
“Is there anything I can do for you, old chap?” I asked a wounded man of the Hampshires, one day. “Yes,” he answered, “you might light my fag for me. You will find matches and all in my inside pocket.” I did as he asked, and the last glimpse I caught of him he was lying out there with German shells and bullets flying all around, calmly smoking a “Gold Flake.” That spirit is characteristic of our lads: A Private of the Grenadier Guards.
Cheerful in Verse
I was through all the fighting, commencing with the battle of Mons, until the 9th of last month, when I got wounded. This little verse will explain a lot:
I was wounded on the 9th,
Near the River Marne.