told me that he had five bullet-holes in him. He lies in France to-day, and I owe my life to him, and again I pay homage to his memory and to him as one of England's greatest heroes – a Valiant Son of London. —John Batten (late Rifleman, 13 Bn., K.R.R.C.), 50 Sussex Gardens, Hyde Park, W.2.
Alec Lancaster was a showman at the White City in pre-war days. Short in stature, he possessed a mighty heart, and in the ghastly days in front of Poelcapelle he made history as the sergeant who took command of a brigadier.
The brigadier had been on a visit to the front line to inspect a new belt of wire and, passing the – headquarters, paused to look around.
Just then a few shells came over in quick succession and things looked nasty.
Alec Lancaster took command and guided the brigadier somewhat forcibly into a dug-out with the laconic, "Nah, then. We don't want any dead brigadiers rahnd 'ere." —Geo. B. Fuller, 146 Rye Road, Hoddesdon, Herts.
On the third day of the German offensive in March 1918 a certain brigade of the R.F.A. was retiring on Péronne.
A driver, hailing from London town, was in charge of the cook's cart, which contained officers' kits belonging to the headquarters' staff.
As he was making his way along a "pip-squeak" came over and burst practically beneath the vehicle and blew the whole issue to pieces. The driver had a miraculous escape.
When he recovered from the shock he ruefully surveyed the debris, and after deciding that nothing could be done, continued his journey on foot into Péronne.
Just outside that town he was met by the Adjutant, who said, "Hullo, driver, what's happened – where's cook's cart with the kits?"
Driver: Blown up, sir.
Adjutant (anxiously): Anything salved?
Driver: Yus, sir, me! —F. H. Seabright, 12 Broomhill Road, Goodmayes, Essex.
The London (47th) Division, after a strenuous time on the Somme in September 1916, were sent to Ypres for a quiet (?) spell, the depleted ranks being made up by reserves from home who joined us en route.
The 18th Battalion (London Irish), were informed on taking the line that their opponents were men of the very same German regiment as they had opposed and vanquished at High Wood.
Soon after "stand down" the following morning Rifleman S – mounted the fire-step and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted, "Compree 'Igh Wood, Fritz?"
The words had hardly left his lips when zip, a sniper's bullet knocked his tin hat off his head and Rifleman S – found himself lying on the duckboards with blood running down his face.
Picking himself up, he calmly gathered his souvenirs together and said as he made his way out, "Cheerio, boys, I've got a Blighty one, but don't tell the colonel it was self-inflicted." —A. C. B., Ilford, Essex.
Our division (the Third) was on its way from the line for the long-looked-for rest. We were doing it by road in easy stages.
During a halt a pack animal (with its load of two boxes of "·303") became restive and bolted. One box fell off and was being dragged by the lashing. Poor old Nobby Clarke, who had been out since Mons, stopped the box with his leg, which was broken below the knee.
As he was being carried away one of the stretcher-bearers said, "Well, Nobby, you've got a Blighty one at last."
"Yus," said Nobby; "but it took a fousand rahnds to knock me over." —H. Krepper (late 5th Fusiliers), 62 Anerley Road, Upper Norwood, S.E. 19.
The Commanding Officer of a Territorial battalion was wounded in both hands during the third battle of Gaza in 1917. He had much service to his credit, was a lieutenant-colonel of over two years' standing, had been wounded twice before, and held the D.S.O.
He pluckily remained with his unit for thirty-six hours. Then, worn out with lack of sleep, pain, and loss of blood, and filled with disappointment at having to leave his battalion still in the fight, he trudged back to the field ambulance.
His sufferings, which had aged his appearance, and the Tommy's tunic which he wore in action, apparently misled a party of 10th London men whom he passed. They looked sympathetically at him, and one said, "Poor old blighter, 'e ought never to 'ave been called up." —Captain J. Finn, M.C., Constitutional Club, W.C.2.
There were no proper trenches in front of Armentières in early December 1914, and a machine gun section was doing its best to build an emplacement and cover. It was in the charge of a young Londoner who in times of excitement stuttered badly.
Not being satisfied with the position of one sandbag, he hopped over those already in place, and in full view of Jerry (it was daylight too), began to adjust the sandbag that displeased him.
Jerry immediately turned a machine gun on him, but the young officer finished his work, and then stood up.
Looking towards Jerry as the section yelled to him to come down, he stuttered angrily. "I b-b-be-lieve the bli-bli-blighters are shoo-shoo-shoo-shoo-ting at me." At that moment someone grabbed his legs and pulled him down. It was a fine example of cool nerve. —T. D., Victoria, S.W.1.
It happened late in 1917 in Tank Avenue, just on the left of Monchy-le-Preux. It was a foul night of rain, wind, sleet, and whizz-bangs.
My battalion had just been relieved, and we were making our way out as best we could down the miry communication trench. Every now and again we had to halt and press ourselves against the trench side to allow a straggling working party of the K.R.R.s to pass up into the line.
Shells were falling all over the place, and suddenly Fritz dropped one right into the trench a few bays away from where I was.
I hurried down and found two of the working party lying on the duckboards. They were both wounded, and one of them had his tunic ripped off him by the force of the explosion. What with his tattered uniform – and what remained of it – and his face and bare chest smothered in mud, he was a comical though pathetic sight. He still clung to his bundle of pickets he had been carrying and he sat up and looked round with a puzzled expression.
One of our sergeants – a rather officious fellow – pushed himself forward.
"Who are you?" he asked. "K.R.R.s?"
"'Course," retorted the half-naked Cockney. "Oo d'ye fink we was – Ancient Britons?" —E. Gordon Petrie (late Cameron Highlanders), "Hunky-Dory," Demesne Road, Wallington, Surrey.
Between Ecoust and Bullecourt in January 1918 my platoon was passing a mine crater which was half-full of water when suddenly Jerry sent one over. Six of our fellows were wounded, and one of them, a Bow Road Cockney, was hurled into the crater.
He struggled to his feet and staggered towards a pile of rubble that rose above the muddy water like an island. Arrived there, he sat down and looked round him in bewilderment. Then: "Blimey," he muttered, "Robinson ruddy Crusoe!" —E. McQuaid (late R.S.F.), 22 Grove Road, S.W.9.
On October 11-12, 1914, during the Mons retreat, a small party of 2nd Life Guards were told off as outpost on the main road, near Wyngene, Belgium. After we had tied our horses behind a farmhouse at the side of the road, we settled down to await the arrival of "Jerry."
Time went slowly, and one of our troopers suggested that we all put a half-franc into an empty "bully" tin, and the first one of us who shot a German was to take the lot. To this we all agreed.
It was about midnight when, suddenly, out of the shadows, rode a German Death's-head Hussar. We all raised our rifles as one man, but before we could shoot "Tiger" Smith, one of our real Cockney troopers, shouted, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" During our momentary hesitation "Tiger's" rifle rang out, and off rolled the German into the road.
Upon our indignant inquiry as to why