What good is it for the man whose sweetheart ran away with the other fellow to think about it? Therefore, Tommy rises above his thoughts, he puts them away from him--as best he can. And if that best is not all that people at home might wish it to be, surely some allowance may be made for what may be called the exigencies of the military situation! Perhaps it is the last thing some people would imagine, but homesickness is a very real disease at the Front, and he may count himself lucky who escapes it. “Wot price the Hedgeware Road?” says Bill, ruminatively, as he drinks his glass of mild--very mild--beer. And his pal sums up _his_ feelings in the one word “Blimey!” If you have seen men go into action, not once, but many times; if you have heard them sing, “Oh _my_, I _don’t_ want to die; _I_ want to go Home,” “My Little Grey Home in the West,” and many other similar ditties, then you will understand. The very trenches shout it at you, these universal thoughts of Home. Look at some of the names: Oxford Street, Petticoat Lane, The Empire, Toronto Avenue, Bayou Italien--even the German trenches have their Wilhelmstrasse! Each nation in arms is alike in this respect. Every front-line soldier longs for Home. A singer whose voice was chiefly remarkable for its sympathetic quality, gave a concert within sound of the guns. A battalion, just out of the trenches, went to hear her. She sang several bright little songs, every one encored uproariously, and finally she sang one of those beautiful Kashmir love songs which go straight to the depths. There was a moment’s tense silence when she had finished, and then the “house” rocked with applause, followed by a greater trumpeting of handkerchiefed noses than was ever before indulged in by any regiment _en masse_. She had awakened memories of Home. There are many who rest beneath foreign skies for whom all earthly homes are done with. _They_ have been gathered to the greatest Home of all. ACTION “Message from Head-quarters, sir.” The runner was breathing hard, and his eyes were strained and tense-looking. He had not shaved for days. Fritz’s “thousand guns on the Somme,” that the papers talk of so glibly, were tuning up for business. Major Ogilvie took the message, read it, and handed it on to me. “Zero hour will be at 6.30 P.M. AAA. Our artillery will bombard from 5.30 to 6.20 P.M., slow continuous, and from 6.20 to 6.29 P.M. hurricane fire AAA. You will give all possible assistance, by means of rifle and machine-gun fire to ULTRAMARINE, and arrange to reinforce, if necessary, in case of heavy counter-attack AAA. ULTRAMARINE will indicate that objective has been gained by firing two red rockets simultaneously AAA. Please render situation reports every half-hour to B.H.Q., A.21.d.1.4½.AAA.” We looked at each other and smiled a little grimly. To be on the flank of an attack is rather worse than to attack, for it means sitting tight while Fritz pounds the life out of you.