We hurried forward, expecting to find that our signaller had been killed. The orderly room was a scene of indescribable chaos. Papers were everywhere. Files and returns were mixed up with "iron rations," while in a corner of the room was a pile of feathers about 4 feet deep--all that remained of the feather mattresses. Of our signaller there was no sign. As we looked around, however, his head appeared from beneath the feather pile. His face was streaming with blood, and he looked more dead than alive, but as he surveyed his temporary resting-place, a grin spread over his features, and he picked up a handful of feathers. "Blimey!" he observed, "they must 'ave 'it a blinkin' sparrer."--_"Gunner," Oxford Street, W.1._ All the Fun of the Fair At Neuve Eglise, March 1918, we were suddenly attacked by Jerry, but drove him back. Every now and again we spotted Germans dodging across a gap in a hedge. At once a competition started as to who could catch a German with a bullet as he ran across the gap. "Reminds me of shooting at the bottles and fings at the fair," said my pal, another Cockney Highlander. A second later a piece of shrapnel caught him in the hand. "Blimey, I always said broken glass was dangerous," he remarked as he gazed sadly at the wound.--_F. Adams (late H.L.I.), 64 Homestead Road, Becontree, Essex._ Teacup in a Storm We were in support trenches near Havrincourt Wood in September 1917. At mid-day it was exceptionally quiet there as a rule. Titch, our little Cockney cook, proceeded one day to make us some tea by the aid of four candles in a funk-hole. To aid this fire he added the usual bit of oily "waste," and thereby caused a thin trail of smoke to rise. The water was just on the boil when Jerry spotted our smoke and let fly in its direction everything he had handy. Our trench was battered flat.... We threw ourselves into a couple of old communication trenches. Looking around presently for our cook we found him sitting beneath a waterproof sheet calmly enjoying his sergeant-major's tea. "Ain't none of you blokes firsty?" was his greeting.--_R. J. Richards (late 61st Trench Mortar Battery, 20th London Division), 15 London Street, W.2._ Jack's Unwelcome Present Our company were holding the line, or what _was_ a line of trenches a short time before, when Jerry opened out with all kinds of loudspeakers and musical instruments that go to make war real. We were knocked about and nearly blinded with smoke and flying sandbags. The best we could do was to grope our way about with arms outstretched to feel just where we were. Eventually someone clutched me, saying, "Is that you, Charlie--are you all right?" "Yes, Jack," I answer, "are you all right?"