I was at Vimy Ridge in 1916. On the night I am writing about we were
taking a well-earned few minutes' rest during a temporary lull. We were
under one of the roughly-built shelters erected against the Ridge, and
our only light was the quivering glimmer from a couple of candles. A
shell screeched overhead and "busted" rather near to us--and out went
the candles.
"Smith, light up those candles," cried the sergeant-major to his
batman. "Smithy," who stuttered, was rather shaken and took some time
to strike a match and hold it steadily to the candles. But no sooner
were the candles alight than another "whopper" put them out again.
"Light up those ruddy candles!" cried the S.M. again, "and don't dawdle
about it!"
"Smithy," muttering terrible things to himself, was fumbling for the
matches when the order came that a bombing party was required to clear
"Jerry" out of a deep shell-hole.
"'Ere!" said "Smithy" in his rich Cockney voice. "J-just m-my m-mark.
I'd r-rather f-frow 'eggs' t-than light c-c-candles!"--_W. C. Roberts,
5 Crampton Street, S.E.17._