Sacramental
I am thankful to say I managed to take communion this morning, the first time since I have been out here, and I took it under very extraordinary conditions. It was in a large house, which has been converted into a hospital, and we were in a dark cellar, in which were several casks of wine. We knelt on mattresses covered with blood, and we could hear shells bursting outside. We could also hear the groans of the wounded inside the building, Germans as well as English, but still the communion service was nice and inspiring, even under such conditions: Sergt.-Major Elliott, Queen’s West Surrey.
Sportsmen!
You see some of us with a saucepan, or a frying-pan, and all sorts of pots to do a bit of cooking in. We covered a large cornfield one day in action, and when a few rounds had gone up a hare and a rabbit dodged my way. I had them both. My pal had a plump little partridge, and then a fowl got in the way; so we had a good feed at the end of the day. We pooled the lot and put them in a pot together: Pte. Oliver, 2nd Worcesters.
Praise and Song
Before leaving Belgium we arranged with a priest to have masses said for the souls of our dead chums, and we scraped together what odd money we had, but his reverence wouldn’t hear of taking our money for prayers for the relief of the brave lads who had died so far from the Old Land to rid Belgian soil of the unmannerly German scrubs. When we got here we sang “Paddies Evermore,” and then we were off to chapel to pray for the souls of the lads that are gone: Private McGlade.
Convalescent!
By the address, you will see I am at my winter hotel, but, unfortunately, am confined to my room by a slight indisposition. As a matter of fact, I have been wounded in my left leg by a sweet little German humming-bird, or bullet, which wanted a good home. This place is a magnificent hotel, and we are very comfortable here. I am in a spacious ball-room, beautifully decorated. The kindness of the French people is wonderful, and an example to some of the Britishers, who in time of peace won’t look at a redcoat: Lance-Corporal Hawkins.
A Strange “Bisley”
We were down to the last cigarette in a box that had done the company for a week. There was a fight to get it, but the sergeant-major said we would have to shoot for it like the King’s Prize at Bisley. It was to go to the man hitting the most Germans in fifty shots. A corporal was sent up a tree to signal hits and misses as best he could. Half the company entered, and the prize was won by a chap who had twenty-three hits. The runner-up had twenty-two, and, as a sort of consolation prize, he was allowed to sit near while the winner smoked the cigarette. He said being near the smoke was better than nothing: A Private of the Scottish Rifles.