The Indian Men Everybody is wild about the Indians, and the way they behave themselves under fire is marvellous. One day we were close to them when their infantry received its baptism of fire. When they got the order to advance you never saw men more pleased in all your life. They went forward with a rush like a football team charging their opponents, or a party of revellers rushing to catch the last train. They got to grips with the Germans in double-quick time, and the howl of joy that went up told us that those chaps felt that they were paying the Germans back in full for the peppering they had got whilst waiting for orders. When they came back from that charge they looked very well pleased with themselves, and they had every right to be. They are very proud of being selected to fight with us, and are terribly anxious to make a good impression. They have done it, and no mistake. I watched them one day under shell fire and I was astonished at their coolness. “Coal-boxes” were being emptied around them, but they didn’t seem to pay the slightest heed, and if one of them did go under his mates simply went on as though nothing had happened. They make light of wounds, and I have known cases where men have fought for days with wounds that might have excused any man dropping out: I have seen a man dress one himself in the firing line. One day I questioned one chap about it, and his answer, given with a smile, was, “We must be as brave as the English.” They are astonished at the coolness of our men under fire, and it’s amusing to hear them trying to pick up our camp songs. They were greatly taken with “The March of the Cameron Men,” which they heard one night. They have a poor opinion of the Germans as fighting men, and are greatly interested when we tell them of the horrors perpetrated on the French and Belgians. We are all impressed with the Indians--they are fine fellows: _A Sergeant of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers_. A Happy Ending I have a French book for travellers in France, so with it I went to a farm and showed them that I wanted eggs. So they said, “Ah, wee.” The man got a whip and bunched all the chickens together, and then told me to pick one out. I tried to make him understand it was eggs I wanted, not chickens, but failed. So I got an onion, put it on some straw, sat on it, and then got up and “Cock-a-doodle-dooed!” Laugh, you would have thought they had gone mad. They went to the farm next door and told them, and there I was stuck in the middle of them, going all colours of the rainbow. The secret of it was this; in the book it says: “English, I would like two boiled eggs; French, _Je veux deux œufs à la coque._” I showed them the last word, which I thought was eggs, but eggs is _œufs_. Well, well, it’s all in a lifetime: _A London Fusilier_. The _Real_ Story of the War _SHOULD BE READ BY EVERY BRITISH SUBJECT_