During the battle of the Ancre in November 1916 the 51st Division were
going over the top on our left while our battalion kept Jerry engaged
with a raid. Every inch of the rain-sodden landscape seemed to be
heaving beneath the combined barrages of the opposing forces.
My sergeant, a D.C.M., had been lying in the trench badly wounded for
some hours waiting for things to ease up before he could be got down
to the dressing-station. Presently our raiding party returned with six
prisoners, among them an insignificant-looking German officer (who,
waving a map about, and jabbering wildly, seemed to be blaming his
capture to the faulty tactics of his High Command).
The wounded sergeant watched these antics for a while with a grin,
driving the pain-bred puckers from his face, and then called out, "Oi,
'Indenburg! Never mind abaht ye map o' London; wot time does this 'ere
war end, 'cos I've got an appointment wiv my medical adviser!"
Dear, brave old chap. His appointment was never kept.--_S. T. (late
37th Div.), Fulham, S.W.6._