I saw the brave rescue of a private by young Lieutenant Amos. The man was named Varley, and had been shot in the liver. Although Varley was over 11 stone the young subaltern went alone to his aid, and, under very heavy fire, carried him to safety. The news of the death of Lieutenant Amos in hospital three weeks later was received with great regret by all who saw his self-sacrifice on that occasion: _A Private of the 2nd King’s Own Scottish Borderers_. Never Say Die! In camp one night a German prisoner told us about a Lancashire Fusilier who had been cut off and refused to surrender to 200 Germans. He lay on the ground and kept firing away until he hadn’t a cartridge left, and as his bayonet was gone, he stood up with folded arms while they shot him down. There was a sackful of bullets in him at least, but he killed twelve and wounded over thirty of his foes before the end came: _A Private of the Coldstream Guards_. Onward and Away! One of our lads did a daring thing last week. Somehow he got left behind, and when he found his bearings, he was right in the heart of the German lines. He put spurs to his nag, and made a dash to get through their lines. They were after him like a whirlwind, but he rode for half a mile with the whole army shooting at him. Then he found his path barred by a squadron of Uhlans. He bore madly down on them as though he intended to ride right into them, but, just when he was within a few feet of them, he swerved to the left and dashed by with only a flesh wound in the leg: _Pte. H. Hill, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards_. Hit Four Times I was pulling one of our officers out of the firing line when I got hit. He had been hit four times and he was going mad and jumping up. Well, that was giving our position away, so I held him down till we got the command to retire. Then I pulled him a good way with me, and all the others had got away from the firing line and the Germans were only fifty yards from me when the officer died. I had to leave him then and I crawled along till I came on the road. Then I met a sergeant, who took me to a church which was being used as a hospital: _Pte. J. Hayden, King’s Own Royal Lancashire Regiment_. Sticking to Him I saw an awful sight: a man of the Royal Irish with six wounds from shrapnel. He called me for water, but I had none. I managed to carry him about half a mile and found water: then he was as happy as if he was not wounded. I stuck to him although he was heavy, and I was feeling weak and tired. I had to carry him across a big field of turnips; when half way I slipped, and we both fell. I then had a look back, and could see the fire mountains high. “Thank God!” I said to him, “we are out of that; it’s worse than bullets”: _Private G. Kay, at Mons_. “Boldly They Rode!”