Marching through the sloughed-up mud, through shell holes filled with putrid water, amongst most depressing conditions, I saw a working party returning to their billets. They were wet through and wrapped up with scarves, wool helmets, and gloves. Over their clothes was a veneer of plastered mud. They marched along at a slow swing and in a mournful way sang--
"Left--Left--Left We--are--the tough Guys!"
Apparently there are no more words to this song because after a pause of a few beats they commenced again--
They looked exactly what they said they were.
Windmills, of which there are a good many, are only allowed to work under observation. It was found that they were often giving the enemy information, using the position of the sails to spell out codes in the same way as in semaphore; clock-hands on church towers are also used in the same way.
I saw a pathetic sight to-day. A stretcher came by with a man painfully wounded; he was inclined to whimper; one of the stretcher-bearers said quietly to him, "Be British." He immediately straightened himself out and asked for a "fag." He died that night.
We had a terrific bombardment last night; the ground shook all night and the sky was lit up for miles. The Boches used liquid fire on some new troops and we lost ground.
I found this piece of poetry on the wall of a smashed-up chateau, and I have copied it exactly as I found it. The writing was on a darkened wall, and while I copied it my guide held a torchlight up to it. The place passes as "Dead Cow Farm" on all official maps.
I've traveled many journeys in my one score years and ten," And oft enjoyed the company of jovial fellow men, But of all the happy journeys none can compare to me With the Red-Cross special night express from the trenches to the sea.
"It's Bailleul, Boulogne, Blighty, that's the burden of the song, Oh, speed the train along. If you've only half a stomach and you haven't got a knee, You'll choke your groans and try to shout the chorus after me.
Bailleul, Boulogne, and Blighty, dear old Blighty "cross the sea."
"Now some of us are mighty bad and some are wounded slight, And some will see their threescore years and some won't last the night, But the Red Cross train takes up the strain all in a minor key And sings Boulogne and Blighty as she rumbles to the sea.