A barber would do a roaring trade if he came here, no one having
shaved for weeks. Consequently, beards vary according to the age of
the individual and the length of time he has not shaved. Mine, for
instance, is something to gaze on and remember. They are not by any
means what a writer in a lady’s novelette would describe as “a perfect
dream.” They are scattered over my chivvy-chase in anything but order,
nineteen on one side, fifteen on the other, and thirty-five on the
chin, intermixed with a small smattering of down and dirt. Dirt, did
I say? That doesn’t describe it. Water is at a discount, except for
drinking: soap something to read about, and you wonder when you last
used it, and when you will use it again. I can safely say, “Three weeks
ago I used your soap; since then I have used no other.” And that’s not
spinning you a yarn: _Sergt. Diggins, Leicestershire Regiment_.
“Hallo, Old Tin Hat!”
About four thousand Germans, backed up by heavy artillery play, tried
to cross the river. There were only 300 Connaught Rangers all told
who could be spared to keep them from fixing pontoons. Down to the
river-bank they came, firing for all they were worth. The Irishmen
were entrenched, and shouted across the river such greeting as “Hallo,
old tin hat! When are you coming over?” and as soon as the Irishmen
caught sight of the great boots of the Germans, Hibernian humour was
irrepressible. The Rangers shouted, “We see you; it’s no good hiding
there. We can see your ears sticking out!” Then the Rangers settled
down to enjoy themselves, but a little later some more German infantry,
which had crossed the river to another point, attempted to outflank
them. It was terribly hard work, but the way the Irish stuck it would
have taken your breath away: _A Nottingham Artilleryman_.