During the battle of Arras, Easter 1917, we were lying out in front
of our wire in extended order waiting for our show to begin. Both our
artillery and that of Fritz were bombarding as hard as they could. It
was pouring with rain, and everybody was caked in mud.
Our platoon officer, finding he had a good supply of chocolate, and
realising that rations might not be forthcoming for some time, crept
along the line and gave us each a piece.
As he handed a packet to one cheerful Cockney he was asked, "Wot abaht
a programme, sir?"--_W. B. Finch (late London Regiment), 155 High Road,
Felixstowe._
"It's the Skivvy's 'Arf Day Orf"
Easter Monday, April 9, 1917. Night. Inches of snow and a weird silence
everywhere after the turmoil of the day. Our battalion is held up in
front of Monchy-le-Preux during the battle of Arras. I am sent out with
a patrol to reconnoitre one of our tanks that is crippled and astride
the German wire 300 yards out.
[Illustration: "I'll have to let yer in meself ... it's the skivvy's
'arf day orf!"]
It is ticklish work, because the crew may be dead or wounded and Fritz
in occupation. Very warily we creep around the battered monster and
presently I tap gingerly on one of the doors. No response. We crawl to
the other side and repeat the tapping process. At last, through the
eerie silence, comes a low, hoarse challenge.
"Oo are yer?"
"Fusiliers!" I reply, as I look up and see a tousled head sticking
through a hole in the roof.
"Ho!" exclaims the voice above, "I'll 'ave ter come dahn and let yer in
meself, it's the skivvy's 'arf day orf!"
The speaker proved to have a shattered arm--among other things--and was
the sole survivor of the crew.--_D. K., Fulham, S.W.6._