One night when we were toiling along like to drop with fatigue, we ran
right into a big party of horsemen posted near a wood. We thought they
were Germans, for we could not make out the colour of the uniforms or
anything else, until we heard someone sing out, “Where the hell do you
think you’re going to?” Then we knew they were friends, and I don’t
think I was ever so glad to hear a real good English swear: _A Driver
of the Royal Artillery_.