nty o' London War 'Ospital fer me if I
gets a knock! Write it on a piece o' pyper an' pin it to me tunic w'en
you sends me back to the ambulance."

The barricades were blown up and the fight was on. A two-hundred-piece
orchestra of blacksmiths, with sledgehammers, beating kettle-drums the
size of brewery vats, might have approximated, in quality and volume, the
sound of the battle. The spectacular effect was quite different from that
of a counter-attack across the open. Lurid flashes of light issued from
the ground as though a door to the infernal regions had been thrown
jarringly open. The cloud of thick smoke was shot through with red
gleams. Men ran along the parapet hurling bombs down into the trench. Now
they were hidden by the smoke, now silhouetted for an instant against a
glare of blinding light.

An hour passed and there was no change in the situation.

"Fritzie's a tough old bird," said Tommy. "'E's a-go'n' to die game, you
got to give it to 'im."

The excitement was intense. Urgent calls for "More lemons! More cricket
balls!" were sent back constantly. Box after box, each containing a dozen
grenades, was passed up the line from hand to hand, and still the call
for "More bombs!" We couldn't send them up fast enough.

The wounded were coming back in twos and threes. One lad, his eyes
covered with a bloody bandage, was led by another with a shattered hand.

"Poor old Tich! She went off right in 'is face! But you did yer bit,
Tich! You ought to 'a' seen 'im, you blokes! Wasn't 'e a-lettin' 'em 'ave
it!"

Another man hobbled past on one foot, supporting himself against the side
of the trench.

"Got a Blightey one," he said gleefully. "So long you lads! I'll be with
you again arter the 'olidays."

Those who do not know the horrors of modern warfare cannot readily
understand the joy of the soldier at receiving a wound which is not
likely to prove serious. A bullet in the arm or the shoulder, even though
it shatters the bone, or a piece of shrapnel or shell casing in the leg,
was always a matter for congratulation. These were "Blightey wounds."
When Tommy received one of this kind, he was a candidate for hospital in
"Blightey," as England is affectionately called. For several months he
would be far away from the awful turmoil. His body would be clean; he
would be rid of the vermin and sleep comfortably in a bed at night. The
strain would be relaxed, and, who knows, the war might be over before he
was again