ung jauntily
over his shoulder, and munched army biscuit with all the relish of an old
campaigner. Several days later he said good-bye to us, and made the
journey back the same road, this time in a motor ambulance; and as I
write, he is hobbling about a London hospital ward, one trouser leg
pathetically empty.

I remember that march in the light of our later experiences, in the light
of the official report of the total British casualties at Loos: sixty
thousand British lads killed, wounded, and missing. Marching four
abreast, a column of casualties miles in length. I see them plodding
light-heartedly through the mud as they did on that gray September day,
their faces wet with the rain, "an' a bloke standin' by the side of the
road would think they was a-go'n' to a Sunday-school picnic."

The sergeant was in a talkative mood.

"Lissen to them guns barkin'! We're in for it this time, straight!"

Then, turning to the men behind,--

"'Ave you got yer wills made out, you lads? You're a-go'n' to see a scrap
presently, an' it ain't a-go'n' to be no flea-bite, I give you _my_
word!"

"Right you are, sergeant! I'm leavin' me razor to 'is Majesty. 'Ope 'e'll
tyke the 'int."

"Strike me pink, sergeant! You gettin' cold feet?"

"Less sing 'im, 'I want to go 'ome.' Get 'im to cryin' like a baby."

"W'ere's yer mouth-organ, Ginger?"

"Right-O! Myke it weepy now! Slow march!"

"I--want to go 'ome!
I--want to go 'ome!
Jack-Johnsons, coal-boxes, and shrapnel, oh, Lor'!
I don't want to go in the trenches no more.
Send me across the sea
W'ere the Allemand can't shoot me.
Oh, my! I don't want to die!
I--want to go 'ome!"

It is one of the most plaintive and yearning of soldiers' songs.
Jack-Johnsons and coal-boxes are two greatly dreaded types of high
explosive shells which Tommy would much rather sing about than meet.

"Wite," the sergeant said, smiling grimly; "just wite till we reach the
end o' this 'ere march! You'll be a-singin' that song out o' the other
side o' yer faces."

We halted in the evening at a little mining village, and were billeted
for the night in houses, stables, and even in the water-soaked fields,
for there was not sufficient accommodation for all of us. With a dozen of
my comrades I slept on the floor in the kitchen of a miner's cottage, and
listened, far into the night, to the constant procession of motor
ambulances, the tramp of marching feet, the thunder of gun