The Motor-Bus in War

A LORRY DRIVER

s to the Royal Horse Artillery Batteries of the Division, I have been fortunate in having had the opportunity of driving my lorry as near the li

white circles, which distinguishes our aeroplanes from those of the enemy, the latter being marked with the familiar "Iron Cross." The signs are, of course, readily distinguishable from the ground, being painted on the underside of the planes. Much to my surprise, on the aeroplane coming over us, there was a loud report in the field alongside where I was standing, followed by four others in rapid succession. After the disguised hostile machine, as it proved to be, had disappeared into the blue, we made for the field and found deep holes, measuring some five or six feet in diameter, in the soft ground. One bomb exploded close beside a cottage, but fortunately no one wa

pot, but there was too much interest attached to the

rs, to be seen in every shell-shattered village, such as "Men must not linger here," "Out of bounds," etc., were hardly needed, for no one desired to linger any longer than curiosity prompted him. As I returned to my lorry, one of the R.H.A. batteries was just starting to make itself heard. Although at this time the guns were only 13-pounders, they spoke volum

he wielded a mouth-organ with the other. Those passing in the opposite direction on their way up to the trenches were a contrast. The only semblance of cheerfulness was a slight wink given from a very sober countenanc

statement. Such incidents, alas! are an everyday occurrence. Neuve Chapelle claimed an army almost in itself. One had only to see at railhead lorry loads of rifles twisted beyond recognition almost, with bullet holes through the stocks, in some cases stockless; blood-smeared and broken bayonets, which had done the

bearing the same dazed expression of men who have been through "Hell's gates." This phrase I borrow from one who was in the first gas attack at Ypres. He was resting on account of broken nerve when I met him, having carried out no less than eighteen of his comra

level crossing near by was the grave of a Private, who was shot dead by a French sentry, through failing to reply to his challenge. This was in the days when parties of Uhlans were still in the locality. Nightingales sang at night overhead and frogs croaked on the ground as an accompaniment, the concert being at times interrupted by the bombardment of the guns, which resounded through the forest. The earth shook and the din reminded one of a number of traction engines travelling over sets, only louder; the sky was lit up by the gun flashes, intermingled with star shells. The batte

he bodies of some of those who had fallen during the night before were being placed in their last resting-places. The road was lined on either side with tall trees, now clothed in young foliage, silhouetted against rugged timber which would never see the green on it again. A nightingale, oblivious of what was going on underneath, was singing as I walked down the roa

within a matter of a few yards from our dumping-ground. The battery being on the move, we took up a fresh position, this time at a little place near Béthune. I had a bed for the first time for many months, but was unable to sleep, owing, I suppose, to the sudden change from t

ly. The result was a jamb, neither being able to get right in. The Major asked him where the devil he was going to. "Same place as you, sir," was his quiet retort. On another occasion an R.H.A. gun was knocked out by a direct hit. Parts of one of its wheels were found almost a hundred yards away from the gun, and pieces of it were scattered everywhere, yet an officer who was sleeping on the ground only ten yards from the gun was untouched. Towards the end of August 1915 the rumour "Batteries on the move again" came through, generally from the battery cook-house, where all matters, military and otherwise, are discussed. The 1st of September found us on the road again, this time to Corbie, near to which town the batteries had taken up their position on the Somme. To reach the wagon lines, where rations were dumped, it was necessary to travel along a road under enemy observation, along the Somme Valley, a beautiful part of the country. At that time we saw the French troops leaving this part of the line to make room for our men. The Saxon regiments were in the trenches just across the valley, their line being visible on the side of a hill. A distance of three

empts to shell the road below, which were evident everywhere. Here it seemed was a veritable dumping-ground for their shells, which had been, however, us

me by going round a very fine garden. The inhabitants having left, we regaled ourselves with some luscious pears which lay ripe on the ground, when suddenly a shell burst within forty yards of the roadside. We picked up a large piece, weighing se

tiful gardens as those which lay at the back of the chateau belonging to the factory proprietor. Carpet-bedding and elaborate borders, most beautifully kept, led down to a natural and intensely cultivated garden-lakes fe

a pike boiled in white wine. The French bourgeois of the Somme

d since I left England. Omelettes au rhum, confiture of any variety I cared for, was always made ready. Poulet en casserole freq