It was raining like blazes and a cold, wretched night. We all knew we were going into action in the morning, and we stood together while shelter was found for us. Suddenly somebody started to sing “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and the whole battalion took it up, and we sang it right through. Next we had the “Glory Song,” and it was impressive. We went into action the next day, and on the following night twenty-five or thirty of our men who had sung those hymns were buried, and an officer who read the service was in tears: _Pte. Baker, Coldstream Guards_. Happy all the Day It’s a fine sight to see us on the march, swinging along the roads as happy as schoolboys and singing all the old songs we can think of. The tunes are sometimes a bit out, but nobody minds so long as we’re happy. As we pass through the villages the French come out to cheer us and bring us food and fruit. Cigarettes we get more of than we know what to do with. Some of them are rotten, so we save them for the German prisoners, who would smoke anything they can lay hands on. Flowers also we get plenty of, and we are having the time of our lives: _Corporal J. Bailey_. “Supreme Beings” The roads are simply cruel. But the worst is we cannot get a decent smoke. I am in the best of health, what with the feeding and the open-air life, the stars being our covering for the last few weeks. We have seen some of the most lovely country imaginable. Some of the hills were four miles long, with about eight S-bends in them. The people over here go half mad when we go through the villages and towns. They throw fruit and flowers at us, give us wine, and goodness knows what. If we happen to stop they run out to shake hands and hang round us as if we were supreme beings: _Driver L. Finch_. “Who Goes There?” I was posted on guard, and after about an hour I began to feel sleepy, so I went to stand beside a wagon, when suddenly I heard a noise. Then I shouted, “Halt! who goes there?” But there was no reply. Again I shouted. Still there was no response. Then I saw a figure move about five yards away from me, but as it was so very dark I could not tell whether it was one of our own men or not, so I shouted for the last time, and as there was no reply I fired. The guard turned out and ran to the place, bringing back the victim, shot through the shoulder. He was a German spy: _Driver Renniberg, Army Service Corps_. “Mum’s the Word”