One night--there were about ten of us--we were surprised to find a light in an empty farmhouse, and were still more surprised to find sounds of revelry coming out through the window. We peeped in, and there were about fifty Germans all over the shop, drinking, and eating, and smoking, and generally trying to look as if they were having a jolly old time. It was a dare-devil of an Irishman who suggested that we ought to give the Germans a little surprise, and we were all in with him. Doing our best to look fierce, and create the impression that we had at least a brigade behind us, we flung open the door without any ceremony. Our first rush was for the passage where most of the Germans had stacked their rifles, and from there we were able to cover the largest party in any one room. They were so taken aback that they made very little resistance. The only chap who showed any fight at all was a big fellow, who had good reason to fear us, for he had escaped the day before, after being arrested as a spy. He whipped out a revolver, and some of his chums drew swords, but we fired into them, and they threw up their hands, after the little one had sent a revolver bullet through my arm. We fastened them up securely, collected all the smokes and grub they had not touched, and marched them off to the camp. There was a nice how-d’ye-do when we got back, for the sound of firing so close by had alarmed the whole camp, and we were called to account for our behaviour. I think they were inclined to let us down lightly, because of the prisoners, particularly the spy chap; but we had no business to be out of barracks that night, and we’ll probably have some mark of official displeasure chalked up against us: _Pte. F. Lewis, 1st South Staffs_. XIX. MATTERS IN GENERAL _Come all the world against her, England yet shall stand._ A. C. SWINBURNE. _Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed; Vain, those all-shattering guns, Unless proud England keep, untamed, The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring-- A man of mean estate, Who died as firm as Sparta’s king, Because his soul was great._ SIR F. H. DOYLE’S “Private of the Buffs.” We run a series of concerts each evening round a big camp fire, and I am always the first to start them off. There are three French girls who come down and sing for us, but they are not as good as you at singing: _A Private of the A.M.C._ The Kilt Most of the Highlanders are hit in the legs. It is because of tartan trews and hose, which are more visible at a distance than any other part of their dress. Bare calves also show up in sunlight: _Private P. Barry_. Proper Officers