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_.
The “Entente”
I have never seen such enthusiasm. Old men, women, and children fight
in the streets to get close enough to shake hands with us, or beg
a piece of cloth or a button from our uniforms as mementoes of the
“Entente,” as they call it. At one village the women clamoured for
locks of hair from us, and they had to get them. Even the sick are
brought to the doors to see us pass: _A Private Soldier_.