While on the Somme in 1916 my battery was sent to rest in a village
behind the line. The billet allotted to us had been an hotel, and all
the furniture, including bedsteads and feather mattresses, had been
stored in the room which did duty as an orderly room.
Returning one day from exercise, we saw a flight of enemy 'planes
coming over, and as we approached the billet a bomb was dropped
straight through the roof of our building, the sole occupant of which
at the time was a Cockney signaller on duty, in touch with Brigade
Headquarters.
[Illustration: "They must 'ave 'it a blinkin' sparrer."]
We hurried forward, expecting to find that our signaller had been
killed. The orderly room was a scene of indescribable chaos. Papers
were everywhere. Files and returns were mixed up with "iron rations,"
while in a corner of the room was a pile of feathers about 4 feet
deep--all that remained of the feather mattresses. Of our signaller
there was no sign.
As we looked around, however, his head appeared from beneath the
feather pile. His face was streaming with blood, and he looked more
dead than alive, but as he surveyed his temporary resting-place, a grin
spread over his features, and he picked up a handful of feathers.
"Blimey!" he observed, "they must 'ave 'it a blinkin'
sparrer."--_"Gunner," Oxford Street, W.1._