The whole of the army has absolute confidence in General French. He is such a splendidly cool leader. Nothing flurries him, and he treats his troops like men. When he passes along the lines he doesn’t come looking sulky or stern, but he will talk as pleasantly to the ordinary soldier as to the highest officer. Yes, the army in France will follow General French anywhere: Pte. S. Powell, 2nd Batt. Welsh Regiment.
The Wrong Horse
We don’t mind how hard the Germans press us, for we can always give them as good as they give us, with something to spare as a reminder to Kaiser Bill that he’s backed the wrong horse this time. I expect he knows it by now, however, and I wouldn’t be in his place for worlds. It must be awful to feel that you have made mugs of so many poor chaps who are being sent to their deaths for no good reason that any sane person can see: Private J. Thomson.
Close Fighting
When it comes to close fighting it has been shown more times than I can count that, man for man, our regiments are equal to anything the Germans can put in the field, and we’re certainly not impressed with the fighting finish of the German soldier. Their prisoners are surly and bad-tempered, who don’t like being taken, and evidently bear us a grudge for catching them: Private T. Macpherson.
Mud—and Glory
There’s very little chance for any of the showy kind of fighting that gets into the papers and delights the girls. It’s simply dull, dreary work in the trenches, where there’s more mud than glory and more chills on the liver than cheers. This war will be won by the men who can put up with the most of that sort of thing, and we have got to grin and bear it right to the end. I must say that, though it’s not what they like best, our chaps are keeping at it pretty well, and they won’t be easily worn out at this game: Pte. G. Turner, Hampshire Regiment.
What Thinks the Kaiser?
What do you think of our army now? I wonder what the Kaiser thinks about it? His famous crushing machine turns out to be an easily demoralized crowd of automatic soulless clods who don’t know the meaning of individual effort and efficiency. Take away their driving power, the fear of their brutal officers, and they stand a useless mass of brainless, bewildered men. They have a certain amount of pluck, but they don’t know how to put it to account: A Manchester Soldier.