I am one of the fortunate ones. I was always told I would never be
killed, and I begin to think I was born under a lucky star. I have
been engaged in driving motor-wagons to and from the men lying in
the trenches fighting our battle on the Aisne. Certainly I have seen
very little of the fighting, but the roar of the big guns has been my
companion night and day. I had not been on the job four days before I
lost my first wagon, which I named the “London, Croydon, and Purley
Growler.” On my second journey to the field of operations we were
ambushed by a body of Germans, who pounced out of a wood, but not one
of them got back to tell the tale. It was a perfect eye-opener for
me and a nerve-tester, I can tell you. We were just congratulating
ourselves when crash went a shell on to the bonnet. How I escaped I
don’t know. My growler was no good; she was a complete wreck. After
transferring the load to another lorry we abandoned her and got away,
but not before several of our fellows were winged: _Private W. G.
Davies, A.S.C._