Two or three American officers were attached to our brigade H.Q. on the
Somme front.
We were doing our usual four days in the front line when one morning
an American officer emerged from the communication trench. Just then
the Germans opened out with everything from a 5·9 to rifle grenade. We
squeezed into funk-holes in the bottom of the trench. Presently there
was a lull, and the American officer was heard to ask, "Say, boys,
where is the front line in these parts?"
"Tich," a little Cockney from Euston way, extracted himself from
the earth, and exclaimed, "Strike! j'ear that? Wot jer fink this
is--a blinkin' rifle range?"--_W. Wheeler (late 23rd Battalion Royal
Fusiliers), 55 Turney Road, Dulwich, S.E._
"If Our Typist Could See Me Nah"
Imagine (if you can) the mud on the Somme at its worst. A Royal Marine
Artilleryman (a very junior clerk from "Lambeff") was struggling up the
gentle slope behind Trones Wood with a petrol tin of precious water
in either hand. A number of us were admiring his manly efforts from a
distance when the sudden familiar shriek was heard, followed by the
equally familiar bang.
We saw him thrown to the ground as the whizz-bang burst but a few feet
from him, and we rushed down, certain that he had "got his." Imagine
our surprise on being greeted by an apparition that had struggled to
a sitting posture, liberally plastered with mud, and a wound in the
shoulder, who hoarsely chuckled and said: "If our typist could see me
_nah_!"--_C. H. F. (W/Opr. attached R.M.A. Heavy Brigade)._
Q! Q! Queue!
The scene was an observation post in the top of a (late) colliery
chimney, 130 ft. up, on the outskirts of Béthune, during the last
German offensive of the War.
A great deal of heavy shelling was in progress in our immediate
vicinity, and many of Fritz's "high-velocities" were screaming past our
lofty pinnacle, which was swaying with the concussion. At any moment a
direct hit was possible.
My Cockney mate had located a hostile battery, and after some
difficulty with the field telephone was giving the bearing to
headquarters.
Faults in the line seemed to prevent him from finishing his message,
which consisted of giving the map square (Q 20) being "strafed." The
"Q" simply would not reach the ears of the corporal at headquarters,
and after many fruitless efforts, using "Q" words, I heard him burst
out in exasperation: "Q! Q! Queue! ... Blimey! you know--the blinkin'
thing wot the pore blighters at home wite abaht for 'mawgarine'
in."--_B. W. Whayman (late F.S.C., R.E.), 24 Oxford Street, Boston,
Lincolnshire._
"Fine 'eads er Salery!"
We were in a deep railway cutting near Gouzeancourt. Jerry's aeroplanes
had found us and his artillery was trying to shift us.
On the third day we had run out of cigarettes, so the sergeant-major
asked for a volunteer to go to a canteen four miles away.
Our Cockney, a costermonger well known in the East End, volunteered.
He could neither read nor write, so we fixed him up with francs, a
sandbag, and a list.
Hours passed, the strafe became particularly heavy, and we began to
fear our old pal had been hit.
Suddenly during a lull in the shelling far away along the ravine we
heard a voice shouting, "Ere's yer fine 'eads er salery 'orl white." He
was winning through.--_"Sparks," Lowestoft, Suffolk._