One big wounded German cried out from the trench in which he laid to a R.A.M.C. man who was at work near by, “Take me from this hell. I will give you all my money.” In due course he was taken from the trench (grave, as it really was, because of the heaps of dead lying in it), and was finally removed to a place where I was lying: _Bandsman Boyd, 2nd Welsh_. Another Rocket We have been living the life of rabbits, for we burrowed ourselves in trenches, and here we remained for over fifty hours. It was an exciting and not unpleasant experience. The bursting of shells overhead was continuous, and it became monotonous. To the youngsters it was an awful experience in the earlier stages, but even they became so accustomed to the roar overhead that they raised a cheer each time shrapnel and shell spoke, making such remarks as “There’s another rocket, John”: _Pte. C. Harris, West Kents_. Too Late! The Germans don’t seem to care how much ammunition they waste. They kept blazing away for nine solid hours at a position which we had left the day before. When some of us visited the abandoned trenches after they had discovered their mistake we were astonished to find the ground covered with bullets that had done absolutely no damage. If it wasn’t for their artillery I really don’t know where they would be, for they are little use at any other form of fighting: _Private Edward Strong_. Might Shake Hands There are times when if you stuck your head out of a trench you could no more help being hit than you could expect to escape drops of rain if you went out on a wet day without an umbrella. You will not be able to see a German when darkness comes, but next morning you will find that the trenches have come so close, owing to the exertions of the two sides, that you could reach out of yours and shake hands with a German--that’s if you wanted to. When things get so close as that there’s nothing for it but to set to and shift the beggars a little further along: _A Driver of the Royal Artillery_. A Football Talk You musn’t run away with the idea that we all stand shivering or cowering under shell fire, for we don’t. We just go about our business in the usual way. If it’s potting at the Germans that is to the fore, we keep at it as though nothing were happening, and if we’re just having a wee bit of a chat among ourselves until the Germans come up, we keep at it all the same. When I got my wound in the leg it was because I got too excited in arguing with wee Geordie Ferris, of our company, about Queen’s Park Rangers and their chances this season: _A Private of the Gordon Highlanders_. Feeling Led