One night in July 1917, as darkness came along, my battalion moved up
and relieved a battalion in the front line.
Next morning as dawn was breaking Jerry started a violent strafe. My
platoon occupied three fire-bays, and we in the centre one could shout
to those in the bays on either side, although we could not see them.
In one of the end bays was "Monte Carlo" Teddy, a true lad from London,
a "bookie's tick-tack" before the war. He was called "Monte Carlo"
because he would gamble on anything. As a shell exploded anywhere near
us Teddy would shout, "Are you all right, sarge?" until this kind of
got on my nerves, so I crawled into his bay to inquire why he had
suddenly taken such an interest in my welfare. He explained, "I gets up
a draw larst night, sarge, a franc a time, as to which of us in this
lot stopped a packet first, and you're my gee-gee."
I had hardly left them when a shell exploded in their bay. The only
one to stop a packet was Teddy, and we carried him into the next bay
to await the stretcher-bearers. I could see he would never reach the
dressing station.
Within five minutes I had stopped a lovely Blighty, and they put me
alongside Teddy. When he noticed who it was he said, "Well I'm blowed,
just my blinkin' luck; licked a short head and I shan't last long
enough to see if there's a' objection."
Thus he died, as he always said he would, with his boots on, and my
company could never replace him. Wherever two men of my old mob meet
you can bet your boots that one or the other is sure to say, "Remember
'Monte Carlo' Ted?"--_E. J. Clark (late Sergeant, Lincoln Regt.), c/o
Sir Thomas Lipton, Bart., K.C.V.O., Osidge, Southgate, N.14._
That Infernal Drip-Drip-Drip!
We were trying to sleep in half a dug-out that was roofed with a
waterproof sheet--Whale and I. It was a dark, wet night. I had hung a
mess tin on a nail to catch the water that dripped through, partly to
keep it off my head, also to provide water for an easy shave in the
morning.
A strafe began. The night was illuminated by hundreds of vivid flashes,
and shells of all kinds burst about us. The dug-out shook with the
concussions. Trench mortars, rifle grenades, and machine-gun fire
contributed to the din.
Whale, who never had the wind up, was shifting his position and turning
from one side to the other.
"What's the matter?" I asked my chum. "Can't you sleep?"
"Sleep! 'Ow the 'ell can a bloke sleep with that infernal
_drip-drip-drip_ goin' on?"--_P. T. Hughes (late 21st London Regiment,
47th Division), 12 Shalimar Gardens, Acton, W._
"A Blinkin' Vanity Box"
After the terrific upheaval of June 7, 1917, my brigade (the 111th)
held the line beyond Wytschaete Ridge for some weeks. While my company
was in support one day my corporal and I managed to scrounge into a
pill-box away from the awful mud. We could not escape the water because
the explosion of the mines on June 7 had cracked the foundation of our
retreat and water was nearly two feet deep on the floor.
Just before dusk on this rainy July evening I was shaving before a
metal mirror in the top bunk in the pill-box, while the corporal washed
in a mess-tin in the bunk below. Just then Jerry started a severe
strafe and a much-muddied runner of the 13th Royal Fusiliers appeared
in the unscreened doorway.
"Come in and shelter, old man," I said. So he stepped on to an
ammunition box that just failed to keep his feet clear of the water.
He had watched our ablutions in silence for a minute or so, when a
shell burst almost in the doorway and flung him into the water below
our bunks, where he sat with his right arm red and rent, sagging at his
side.
"Call this a shelter?" he said. "Blimey, it's a blinkin' vanity
box!"--_Sgt., 10th R.F., East Sheen, S.W.14._