This soldier was in the trenches when suddenly he saw that close to the German lines a number of his comrades had been struck down while in the act of charging the enemy. He took off his coat and equipment, and walked over to where they lay under a perfect hail of bullets. Beginning with the adjutant, he made altogether eleven journeys, bringing in also his colonel and nine men. Small wonder that he is said to have been recommended for the Victoria Cross. During the first two months of the war, the British Veterinary Corps, which, by the way, was first formed after the South African War, had 30,000 horse patients through its hands. Horses, in spite of motor transport, have already played an important part in this great war, and it does not require much thought to know that their supply in almost every country is limited. Russia alone seems to have an inexhaustible number—in fact, it has been asserted that there are no fewer than thirty million horses at the disposal of the Tsar. Our horses are better looked after than any others in the field. The wounded ones are cared for most tenderly, and are often cured of quite serious wounds. Not only have they their comfortable hospitals, but there have actually been set apart for them splendid convalescent homes. Some of these consist of the fine racing stables belonging to well-known Frenchmen whose colours are often seen on English racecourses. I have been told that one of the strangest and, in a sense, most pathetic sights on the battlefields of the Aisne was the loose horses which rushed hither and thither aimlessly while shells whistled overhead. Another curious sight is the terror of the birds when an aeroplane flies low. They swirl about, beside themselves with fright, and evidently believe that the flying machine is a huge monster of their own kind bent upon their extermination. A private of the Royal Irish Fusiliers described how he and his comrades once went under fire: “As we stood up, there was a ghastly shower of bullets, and shells burst all round. Into it we had to go, and as I looked ahead one of our chaps said, ‘I think we’ll have to get our great-coats, boys; it’s raining bullets to-night, and we’ll get wet if we’re not careful.’ Men of “C” Company started laughing, and then they took to singing ‘Put up your umbrellas when it comes on wet!’ The song was taken up all along as we went into the thick of it, and some of us were humming it as we dashed into the German trenches.” During the retreat from Mons a slightly wounded Scot, an artilleryman, asked a German for water, and was refused. Long afterwards, during the Battle of the Aisne, the artilleryman recognised the same German among a party of wounded whose cries for water couldn’t be attended to quickly enough.