In the confused fighting round Gueudecourt in 1916 a machine-gun section occupied a position in a maze of trenches, some of which led towards the German line. The divisional pioneer battalion was the Monmouthshire Regiment, all of whose men were Welsh and for the most part spoke Welsh.
A ration party of the M.G.C. had gone back one night and had been absent some time when two members rushed into the position, gasping: "We took the wrong turning! Walked into Jerry's line! They've got Smiffy--and the rations!"
We had hardly got over the shock of this news when Smiffy came staggering up, dragging the rations and mopping a bleeding face, at the same time cursing the rest of the ration party.
"Luv us, Smiffy, how did you get away? We thought the Germans had got you for sure!"
"Germans," gasped Smiffy. "GERMANS! _I thought they was the Monmouths!_"--_S. W. Baxter (late 86th M.G.C.), 110 Bishopsgate, E.C.2._
At the Battle of Cambrai in November 1917 my regiment, the London Irish Rifles, was undergoing a terrific bombardment in Bourlon Wood.
The Germans had been plastering us for about 12 hours with "all calibres," to say nothing of continual gassing.
As we had been wearing gas-masks almost all day without respite, we were nearly "all in" as the afternoon wore on.
I was attending to a man with a smashed foot, when I felt a touch on my shoulder, and, blinking up through my sweat-covered mask, I saw our mess-orderly with his hand over a mess-tin (to keep the gas out, as he said).
I could hardly believe my eyes, but when I heard him say, "Tea is ready, Sarg. Blimey, what a strafe!" I lifted my mask and drank deeply.
From that day till this it has been a wonder to me how he made it.--_S. Gibbons,130 Buckhold Road, Southfields, S.W.18._
The object of our raiding party near Gouzeaucourt in 1917 was to obtain a prisoner.
One plucky, but very much undersized, German machine gunner blazed away at us until actually pounced upon. A Cockney who was well among the leaders jumped down beside him, and heaving him up said:
"Come on, old mate, you're too blinkin' good for this side!"--and then, noticing his lack of inches, "and if yer wants ter make the 'old man' larf tell him you're a 'Prussian Guard.'"--_Walter S. Johnson (late R.W.F.), 29 Southwold Road, Upper Clapton, E.5._