The driver surveyed the scene for a moment and then in a very matter-of-fact voice said: "Blimey! See that? Now I suppose I've got to _walk_ back, and me up all night--wot a war!" And away he trudged!--_C. J. A., N.W.11._ The Umpire After a retreat in May 1915 we saw, lying between our fresh position and the German lines, an English soldier whom we took to be dead. Later, however, we advanced again, and discovered that the man was not dead, but badly wounded. On being asked who he was, he replied in a very weak voice, "I fink I must be the blinkin' umpire."--_W. King (late Royal Fusiliers), 94 Manor Grove, Richmond, Surrey._ "Don't Tell 'Aig" Little "Ginger" was the life and soul of our platoon until he was wounded on the Somme in 1918. As he was carried off to the dressing-station he waved his hand feebly over the side of the stretcher and whispered, "Don't tell 'Aig! He'd worry somethin' shockin'."--_G. E. Morris (late Royal Fusiliers), 368 Ivydale Road, Peckham Rye, S.E.15._ "... In Love and War" During a most unpleasant night bombing raid on the transport lines at Haillecourt the occupants of a Nissen hut were waiting for the next crash when out of the darkness and silence came the Cockney voice of a lorry driver saying to his mate, "'Well,' I sez to 'er, I sez, 'You do as you like, and I can't say no fairer than that, can I?'"--_F. R. Jelley, Upland Road, Sutton, Surrey._ "Afraid of Yer Own Shells" I was on the Italian front in June 1918, and our battery was being strafed by the Austrians with huge armour-piercing shells, which made a noise like an express train coming at you, and exploded with a deafening roar. An O.K. had just registered on one of our guns, blowing the wheels and masses of rock sky-high. A party of about twenty Austrian prisoners, in charge of a single Cockney, were passing our position at the time, and the effect of the explosion on the prisoners was startling. They scattered in all directions, vainly pursued by the Cockney, who reminded me of a sheep-dog trying to get his flock together. At last he paused. "You windy lot o' blighters," he shouted as he spat on the ground in evident disgust, "afraid of yer own bloomin' shells!"--_S. Curtis, 20 Palace Road, Upper Norwood, S.E.19._ The Leader of the Blind In July 1918, at a casualty clearing station occupying temporary quarters in the old College of St. Vincent at ruined Senlis we dealt with 7,000 wounded in eight days. One night when we were more busy than usual an ambulance car brought up a load of gas-blinded men. A little man whose voice proclaimed the city of his birth--arm broken and face blistered with mustard gas, though he alone of the party could see--jumped out, looked around, and then whispered in my ear, "All serene, guv'nor, leave 'em to me." He turned towards the car and shouted inside, "Dalston Junction, change here for Hackney, Bow, and Poplar."