I am one of the fortunate ones. I was always told I would never be killed, and I begin to think I was born under a lucky star. I have been engaged in driving motor-wagons to and from the men lying in the trenches fighting our battle on the Aisne. Certainly I have seen very little of the fighting, but the roar of the big guns has been my companion night and day. I had not been on the job four days before I lost my first wagon, which I named the “London, Croydon, and Purley Growler.” On my second journey to the field of operations we were ambushed by a body of Germans, who pounced out of a wood, but not one of them got back to tell the tale. It was a perfect eye-opener for me and a nerve-tester, I can tell you. We were just congratulating ourselves when crash went a shell on to the bonnet. How I escaped I don’t know. My growler was no good; she was a complete wreck. After transferring the load to another lorry we abandoned her and got away, but not before several of our fellows were winged: _Private W. G. Davies, A.S.C._ Joke, but No Beer Some men prefer to prepare their own food, but the majority divide themselves into sections and get one, or sometimes two, of their number to do all the cooking, washing up, etc. And whatever “cookie” serves up is always accepted as excellent. And many are the jokes cracked and tales told round the fire during meal-times. Very often the cooks have just got a fire going and the pots on when the order comes, “Wind up,” _i.e._ start engines going, and then there is commotion. Semi-boiling water has to be thrown away, and half-cooked food put back in the “grub-box” till the next stop. But we have nothing to grumble at. There is food--and to spare--for all of us. One thing that is often wanted by our men is a good glass of English ale. I know a few here who would gladly give their day’s rations for a “pint.” The “land of wine and cider” will never be the “land of beer” to the English Tommy. We have many a sing-song of a night round the camp fires. I have got a melodeon, which was left on a battlefield by a German soldier, so that is our band. It is an impressive sight to see about thirty fellows around a fire singing lustily “A Little Grey Home in the West,” accompanied by a melodeon, with the roar of cannon occasionally breaking in: _Driver Drake, of the Supply Column_. The Country Round