Patrick MacGill is the genius of the battlefield. The War has given his great Irish heart its opportunity to express itself, and his stories from the front have become little classics in the War's literature. He dedicates his stories: "To the London Irish, to the Spirit of Those Who Fight and to the Memory of Those Who Have Passed Away." A letter to him by the President of the County of London Territorial Association reads: "When I recruited you into the London Irish--one of those splendid regiments that London has sent to Sir John French, himself an Irishman--it was with gratitude and pride. You had much to give us. The rare experiences of your boyhood, your talents, your brilliant hopes for the future. Upon all these the Western hills and loughs of your native Donegal seemed to have the prior claim. But you gave them to London and to our London Territorials. The London Irish will be proud of their young artist in words and he will forever be proud of the London Irish Regiment, its deeds and valour, to which he has dedicated such great gifts. May God preserve you." Patrick MacGill, shoulder to shoulder with the Tommies as a private soldier, is writing many great books. The following stories are taken from his volume entitled "The Red Horizon," by permission of his publishers, _George H. Doran Company_: Copyright 1916. [17] I--THE SOLDIER TELLS HIS TALE Sometimes when our spell in the trenches comes to an end we go back for a rest in some village or town. Here the _estaminet_ or _debitant_ (French, as far as I am aware, for a beer shop), is open to the British soldier for three hours daily, from twelve to one and from six to eight o'clock. For some strange reason we often find ourselves busy on parade at these hours, and when not on parade we generally find ourselves without money. I have been here for four months; looking at my pay book I find that I've been paid 25 fr. (or in plain English, one pound) since I have come to France, a country where the weather grows hotter daily, where the water is seldom drinkable, and where wine and beer is so cheap. Once we were paid five francs at five o'clock in the afternoon after five penniless days of rest in a village, and ordered as we were paid, to pack up our all and get ready to set off at six o'clock for the trenches. From noon we had been playing cards, and some of the boys gambled all their pay in advance and lost it. Bill's five francs had to be distributed amongst several members of the platoon. "It's only five francs, anyway," he said. "Wot matter whether I spend it on cards, wine, or women? I don't care for soldierin' as a profession." "What is your profession, Bill?" Pryor asked; we never really knew what Bill's civil occupation was, he seemed to know a little of many crafts, but was master of none.