The brigadier had been on a visit to the front line to inspect a new belt of wire and, passing the ---- headquarters, paused to look around. Just then a few shells came over in quick succession and things looked nasty. Alec Lancaster took command and guided the brigadier somewhat forcibly into a dug-out with the laconic, "Nah, then. We don't want any dead brigadiers rahnd 'ere."--_Geo. B. Fuller, 146 Rye Road, Hoddesdon, Herts._ "Salvage? Yus, Me!" On the third day of the German offensive in March 1918 a certain brigade of the R.F.A. was retiring on Péronne. A driver, hailing from London town, was in charge of the cook's cart, which contained officers' kits belonging to the headquarters' staff. As he was making his way along a "pip-squeak" came over and burst practically beneath the vehicle and blew the whole issue to pieces. The driver had a miraculous escape. When he recovered from the shock he ruefully surveyed the debris, and after deciding that nothing could be done, continued his journey on foot into Péronne. Just outside that town he was met by the Adjutant, who said, "Hullo, driver, what's happened--where's cook's cart with the kits?" DRIVER: Blown up, sir. ADJUTANT (_anxiously_): Anything salved? DRIVER: Yus, sir, me!--_F. H. Seabright, 12 Broomhill Road, Goodmayes, Essex._ Almost Self-inflicted The London (47th) Division, after a strenuous time on the Somme in September 1916, were sent to Ypres for a quiet (?) spell, the depleted ranks being made up by reserves from home who joined us _en route_. The 18th Battalion (London Irish), were informed on taking the line that their opponents were men of the very same German regiment as they had opposed and vanquished at High Wood. Soon after "stand down" the following morning Rifleman S---- mounted the fire-step and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted, "Compree 'Igh Wood, Fritz?" The words had hardly left his lips when _zip_, a sniper's bullet knocked his tin hat off his head and Rifleman S---- found himself lying on the duckboards with blood running down his face. Picking himself up, he calmly gathered his souvenirs together and said as he made his way out, "Cheerio, boys, I've got a Blighty one, but don't tell the colonel it was self-inflicted."--_A. C. B., Ilford, Essex._ Nobby's 1,000 to 1 Chance Our division (the Third) was on its way from the line for the long-looked-for rest. We were doing it by road in easy stages. During a halt a pack animal (with its load of two boxes of "·303") became restive and bolted. One box fell off and was being dragged by the lashing. Poor old Nobby Clarke, who had been out since Mons, stopped the box with his leg, which was broken below the knee. As he was being carried away one of the stretcher-bearers said, "Well, Nobby, you've got a Blighty one at last." "Yus," said Nobby; "but it took a fousand rahnds to knock me over."--_H. Krepper (late 5th Fusiliers), 62 Anerley Road, Upper Norwood, S.E. 19._ That Derby Scheme