I came on a wounded man of the Lancashire Fusiliers one day. He had two
ghastly wounds in his breast, and I fancy he was booked through. He was
quietly reading a little edition of Ruskin’s “Crown of Wild Olive,” and
seemed to be enjoying it immensely. As I chatted with him for a few
minutes he told me that this little book had been his companion all
through and that when he died he wanted it to be buried with him. His
end came next day, and we buried the book with him: _A Sergeant of the
Fifth Lancers_.
“All Right!”
After being under the deadliest of shell fire for eight days I was hit,
but, thank God, no bones broken. I shall never forget my poor chum. He
had his leg broken with the bone sticking out, and also a great gash
in the thigh. But the one glorious thing about it is, as soon as we
realized we were hit, we joined in prayer to our Father, after which we
helped one another to bandage ourselves up. I haven’t seen him since
they carried us out of the trenches, but I am sure he is all right:
_Pte. W. Marshall, 1st Devonshire Regiment_.
Keepsakes!
The shortest will I have ever heard of was made one night by a chap of
the Royal Scots. He was bowled over in a rush at the German trenches,
and, with what must have been his dying breath, he shouted after his
chum, “Jock, ye can hae ma fags.” Later we came on him dead, and Jock
got the fags all right in his breast pocket; but I don’t think he would
part with them if he wanted a smoke ever so, and none of us would have
asked him to do it: _A Cameron Highlander_.