“Tiddlers!”
We billeted for two days at a place two days’ march from Belgium, and had a pretty good time bathing, and—what was most amusing—fishing in a small pond for “tiddlers.” I and a chum went to a woman at a house and, making her understand the best way we could, begged some cotton and a couple of pins. We had a couple of hours’ fishing, and captured quite two dozen, although before long lots of our chaps caught the complaint and did the same as we did, causing much amusement. I suppose that Frenchwoman had to buy a new stock of cotton, but she was a good sort and was as much amused as the soldiers: Pte. Purgue, of the Royal Fusiliers.
Grace—and Food
The open-air service was good. The chaplain is a dear old chap. I had to go and fetch him from headquarters and take him back after the service, which was rather touching, though he managed to put a bit of fun into it. He gave us a text which I think I shall remember all my life; it fitted the occasion so good. It was: “The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in.” I am having a rather soft time of it lately.... Two weeks ago I was out buying bullocks, and that journey lasted ten days. I had a nice bed each night, tons of good food, and a good bath. It was the first time I had taken my clothes off since we landed: A Soldier with the 4th Division Train.
Polus!
Our fellows get on very well with the Frenchmen; I suppose it is because most of us can talk the lingo after a style. There was one old chap called Polus, a short, tubby little fellow with bright eyes and black moustache, we palled up to quite a lot. He could sing quite well, and was very funny when we called him Signor Caruso. We had him by the fire the other night; you can imagine us round a fire in a corner, formed up against the outside wall of the station, and a lean-to shed, ourselves, some of the Scottish, and some Frenchmen, and this old chap singing and keeping us laughing all the time. He had really a fine voice, and sang the “Marseillaise” and “Toreador,” and one or two other songs very well indeed: Sergt. Sandle, of the H.A.C.
“Gey Hard!”
Two of our chaps one day had a wrangle about when we were likely to reach Berlin. One thought it would be by Christmas, but the other, being more patriotic, was for St. Andrew’s Day, and said there was no prospect of any haggis for the occasion. They made a bet on it, and it was duly registered by a chum, who acted as bookmaker for them frequently. Next day they were in action, and one of them was badly hit. His mate found him, and he saw he hadn’t long to live. The wounded man was far gone, but he had enough sense to recognize his chum, and in a weak voice he said, “I’m thinkin’, Geordie, that wee bet o’ oors wull hae tae be aff noo. It’s gey hard, but the Almighty kens best”: A Sergeant of the Seaforth Highlanders.
“Terribly Put Out”
I see men of the other Irish regiments now and again, and they’re terribly put out over the way these German heathens are destroying churches and sending priests out to starve by the roadside in order that the Germans may be free to live in their swinish way in the houses and churches and sacred buildings. There’s not a man in any of the regiments, Protestant or Roman, that doesn’t mean to make the Germans pay for this, and, with all their bitterness against our faith, there are Protestants from the North who are wilder than we are about it, and declare they won’t stand by and see such things done by dirty Germans without making a row about it. One of them said the other day in his solemn Presbyterian way, “I hate the Pope as much as any man, and I wouldn’t think twice about shutting down all your chapels, but it’s another story when the Germans try it on.” That’s the way most of the men from the North look at it: Pte. Harkness, Royal Irish Regiment.