The jollity in my own part of the line was doubtless a picture in little of what was happening elsewhere. We were anticipating the exciting times just at hand. Mac, who was blown to pieces by a shell a few hours later, was dancing in and out of the ranks singing,-- "Oh! Won't it be joyful! Oh! Won't it be joyful!" Preston, who was killed at the same time, threw his rifle in the air and caught it again in sheer excess of animal spirits. Three rollicking lads, all of whom we buried during the week in the same shell hole under the same wooden cross, stumbled with an exaggerated show of utter weariness singing,-- "We never knew till now how muddy mud is, We never knew how muddy mud could be." And little Charley Harrison, who had fibbed bravely about his age to the recruiting officers, trudged contentedly along, his rifle slung jauntily over his shoulder, and munched army biscuit with all the relish of an old campaigner. Several days later he said good-bye to us, and made the journey back the same road, this time in a motor ambulance; and as I write, he is hobbling about a London hospital ward, one trouser leg pathetically empty. I remember that march in the light of our later experiences, in the light of the official report of the total British casualties at Loos: sixty thousand British lads killed, wounded, and missing. Marching four abreast, a column of casualties miles in length. I see them plodding light-heartedly through the mud as they did on that gray September day, their faces wet with the rain, "an' a bloke standin' by the side of the road would think they was a-go'n' to a Sunday-school picnic." The sergeant was in a talkative mood. "Lissen to them guns barkin'! We're in for it this time, straight!" Then, turning to the men behind,-- "'Ave you got yer wills made out, you lads? You're a-go'n' to see a scrap presently, an' it ain't a-go'n' to be no flea-bite, I give you _my_ word!" "Right you are, sergeant! I'm leavin' me razor to 'is Majesty. 'Ope 'e'll tyke the 'int." "Strike me pink, sergeant! You gettin' cold feet?" "Less sing 'im, 'I want to go 'ome.' Get 'im to cryin' like a baby." "W'ere's yer mouth-organ, Ginger?" "Right-O! Myke it weepy now! Slow march!" "I--want to go 'ome! I--want to go 'ome! Jack-Johnsons, coal-boxes, and shrapnel, oh, Lor'! I don't want to go in the trenches no more. Send me across the sea W'ere the Allemand can't shoot me. Oh, my! I don't want to die! I--want to go 'ome!" It is one of the most plaintive and yearning of soldiers' songs. Jack-Johnsons and coal-boxes are two greatly dreaded types of high explosive shells which Tommy would much rather sing about than meet. "Wite," the sergeant said, smiling grimly; "just wite till we reach the end o' this 'ere march! You'll be a-singin' that song out o' the other side o' yer faces."