"Cooty" was seen to go rigid for a moment, and then he quickly rolled to one side to make way for "Number Two" to take his place. He took "Number Two's" position beside the gun. The new "Number One" saw that "Cooty" had lost three fingers, and told him to retire. "Cooty" would not have that, but calmly began to refill an empty magazine. "Number One" again requested him to leave, and a sharp tiff occurred between them. "Cooty" was heard to say, "Look 'ere, oo's _'it_--you or me?" "You are," said "Number One." "Then mind your own blinkin' business," said "Cooty," "and get on with shelling these peas." Poor "Cooty," who had lost his left foot as well, passed out shortly after, was a Guardsman at one time.--_D. S. T., Kilburn, N.W._ The Stocking Bomb We were a desert mobile column, half-way across the Sinai Peninsula from Kantara to Gaza. Turkish aeroplanes paid us a daily visit and pelted us with home-made "stocking-bombs" (old socks filled with nails, old iron, and explosives). On this particular day we were being bombed and a direct hit on one gunner's shoulder knocked him to the ground, but failed to explode. Sitting up in pain he blinked at the stocking-bomb and then at the plane and shouted: "Nah chuck us yer blinkin' boots dahn!" He then fainted and we helped him, but could not resist a broad smile.--_A. Crose, 77 Caistor Park Road, West Ham, E.15._ Not an Acrobat In a communication trench on the Somme, near Guillemont, in August 1916, we were halted for a "blow" on our way up when Jerry opened with shrapnel. Private Reynolds, from Marylebone, had his right hand cut off at the wrist. We bound his arm as best we could, and whilst doing so one man said to him, "A sure Blighty one, mate--and don't forget when you get home, drop us a line to let's know how you are getting on in hospital." "Yus! I'll write all right," said Reynolds, and then, suddenly, "'Ere, wot d'yer fink I am, a blinkin' acrobat? 'Ow can I write wivout a right arm ter write wiv?"--_A. Sharman (late 12th Royal Fusiliers), 177 Grenville Road, N.W.2._ Story Without an Ending Our gun position lay just behind the Ancre, and Fritz generally strafed us for an hour or two each day, starting about the same time. When the first shell came over we used to take cover in a disused trench. One day, when the strafe began, I grabbed two story magazines just before we went to the trench, and, arrived there, handed one to my Cockney pal. We had both been reading for some time when a shell burst uncomfortably near, and a splinter hit my pal's book and shot it right out of his hand. At which he exclaimed: "Fritz, yer blighter, I'll never know nah whether he was goin' to marry the girl or cut 'er bloomin' froat."--_G. W. Wicheloe (late 138th Heavy Battery, R.G.A.), 162 Stevens Road, Chadwell Heath, Essex._ Cause and Effect A 5·9 had burst on the parados of our trench, and caused--as 5·9's usually did--a bit of a mess.