"Poor old Tich! She went off right in 'is face! But you did yer bit, Tich! You ought to 'a' seen 'im, you blokes! Wasn't 'e a-lettin' 'em 'ave it!" Another man hobbled past on one foot, supporting himself against the side of the trench. "Got a Blightey one," he said gleefully. "So long you lads! I'll be with you again arter the 'olidays." Those who do not know the horrors of modern warfare cannot readily understand the joy of the soldier at receiving a wound which is not likely to prove serious. A bullet in the arm or the shoulder, even though it shatters the bone, or a piece of shrapnel or shell casing in the leg, was always a matter for congratulation. These were "Blightey wounds." When Tommy received one of this kind, he was a candidate for hospital in "Blightey," as England is affectionately called. For several months he would be far away from the awful turmoil. His body would be clean; he would be rid of the vermin and sleep comfortably in a bed at night. The strain would be relaxed, and, who knows, the war might be over before he was again fit for active service. And so the less seriously wounded made their way painfully but cheerfully along the trench, on their way to the field dressing-station, the motor ambulance, the hospital ship, and--home! while their unwounded comrades gave them words of encouragement and good cheer. "Good luck to you, Sammy boy! If you sees my missus, tell 'er I'm as right as rain!" "Sammy, you _lucky_ blighter! W'en yer convalescin', 'ave a pint of ale at the W'ite Lion fer me." "An' a good feed o' fish an' chips fer _me_, Sammy. Mind yer foot! There's a 'ole just 'ere!" "'Ere comes old Sid! W'ere you caught it, mate?" "In me bloomin' shoulder. It ain't _'arf_ givin' it to me!" "Never you mind, Sid! Blightey fer you, boy!" "Hi, Sid! Tell me old lady I'm still up an' comin', will you? You know w'ere she lives, forty-six Bromley Road." One lad, his nerve gone, pushed his way frantically down the trench. He had "funked it." He was hysterical with fright and crying in a dry, shaking voice,-- "It's too 'orrible! I can't stand it! Blow you to 'ell they do! Look at me! I'm slathered in blood! I can't stand it! They ain't no man can stand it!" He met with scant courtesy. A trench during an attack is no place for the faint-hearted. An unsympathetic Tommy kicked him savagely. "Go 'ide yerself, you bloody little coward!" "More lemons! More cricket balls!" and at last, Victory! Fritzie had "chucked it," and men of the Royal Engineers, that wonderfully efficient corps, were on the spot with picks and shovels and sandbags, clearing out the wreckage, and building a new barricade at the farther end of the communication trench. It was only a minor affair, one of many which take place nightly in the firing-line. Twoscore yards of trench were captured. The cost was, perhaps, one man per yard; but as Tommy said,--