For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother....
Shakespeare.
I think I owe all my luck to a mascot I carry in my knapsack. It is a beautiful crucifix, given to me by a Frenchwoman for helping her out of danger. It is silver, enamel, and marble, and she made me take it: A Driver of the Royal Field Artillery.
“A Sport”
When waiting for action we smoked cigarettes and ate apples and pears from the French orchard in which we were situated, while the good old owner—he was a sport—brought us out some coffee at four o’clock in the morning: A Private, of Cricklewood.
“Coo Naht”
I am making progress with my French, and I am not often at fault. Every time we go out people say “Good-night,” even if it is in the daytime, as that is all the English they seem to know. Little children say “Coo Naht”—that is the nearest they can get to the right pronunciation: Corpl. Fourneaux, Royal Engineers.
So Hospitable!
I was sent out one day with two chaps to search a wood and some houses to see if any Germans were hiding. As soon as we approached, the people (who had been hiding in cellars and other places), when they found we were Britishers, simply hugged us. They brought out eggs, bread and butter, and if we had stopped a bit longer it would have required a horse and cart to carry the things away: Pte. Gibson, Scottish Fusiliers.