“Daddy’s Old Corps,” as we call the Lincolns, caught a lot of prisoners who seemed glad to get caught. One man was asked if he spoke English. He replied, “English none,” and on being asked if he wanted some biscuits, he said, “Ah, yes, I’m hungry,” so he was evidently a typical German--good at telling lies. He also knew how to demolish, for he got through six biscuits and a 12 oz. tin of bully in the twinkling of a gnat’s eyebrow, and then said, “More”: _Corpl. Hawkins, of the Lincolns_. Animal Instinct Even the animals in the French villages seemed to know the difference between us and the Germans, and they used to come out to meet us. There was a dog that followed our battery on the march for four days, and we hadn’t the heart to chase it away, and kept it with us. It was a soldier’s dog, you could see, and it died a soldier’s death, for it was smashed to pieces by a shell when curled upon the ground beside one of our guns in action. We crave it a soldier’s funeral with our own comrades next day: _An Artilleryman, of Leicester_. Sacramental I am thankful to say I managed to take communion this morning, the first time since I have been out here, and I took it under very extraordinary conditions. It was in a large house, which has been converted into a hospital, and we were in a dark cellar, in which were several casks of wine. We knelt on mattresses covered with blood, and we could hear shells bursting outside. We could also hear the groans of the wounded inside the building, Germans as well as English, but still the communion service was nice and inspiring, even under such conditions: _Sergt.-Major Elliott, Queen’s West Surrey_. Sportsmen! You see some of us with a saucepan, or a frying-pan, and all sorts of pots to do a bit of cooking in. We covered a large cornfield one day in action, and when a few rounds had gone up a hare and a rabbit dodged my way. I had them both. My pal had a plump little partridge, and then a fowl got in the way; so we had a good feed at the end of the day. We pooled the lot and put them in a pot together: _Pte. Oliver, 2nd Worcesters_. Praise and Song Before leaving Belgium we arranged with a priest to have masses said for the souls of our dead chums, and we scraped together what odd money we had, but his reverence wouldn’t hear of taking our money for prayers for the relief of the brave lads who had died so far from the Old Land to rid Belgian soil of the unmannerly German scrubs. When we got here we sang “Paddies Evermore,” and then we were off to chapel to pray for the souls of the lads that are gone: _Private McGlade_. Convalescent!