real spirit of the average British woman, a spirit
that was doing much to win the war.

"Liza," replied the first speaker's companion, in a somewhat indignant
voice, "Bill's over there, ain't 'e? 'E's tryin' to stop that ----
blighter from treatin' us like 'e did the women of Belgium and France.
'E's gettin' this every day, and still smiles and sticks it. Yer can't
git me to say stop it. Carry on is my motter till the ---- Hun is
slugged out of existence."

This rough, humble Cockney woman displayed the same spirit that was
being shown by the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps in France. The girls of
this corps took it upon themselves to do the work that was being done by
men who thought themselves permanently installed in bomb-proof jobs.
What is more, they did it well. Take this one instance. During the
German drive of 1918, some of these girls were working in canteens a
short distance behind the front line. As the Germans swept forward with
irresistible might, and had almost reached the camps and billets where
the W.A.A.C.'s were, the girls were ordered to leave the danger zone in
motor lorries. They refused, saying: "Those waggons can be used to carry
wounded men back; we can walk." And walk they did; slinging their packs
on their backs and marching nineteen miles over rough, muddy roads. But
not all of them; some of the boldest stayed behind to see that the boys
got hot tea or coffee to revive their tired, in most cases, wounded and
broken bodies. Their courage brought them under shell-fire; but they
carried on dauntlessly. During my last days in London, when I was
singing at one of their hostels, I met four of these women, each of whom
had lost a leg, and one was proudly wearing a Military Medal.

The woman of the tube and the refined W.A.A.C.'s were "sisters under the
skin." Had the former had her way, she would have been at Bill's side,
handing him cartridges while he potted the enemy.

While I was at the Bungalow, we had a somewhat thrilling experience from
air raids. In September, 1917, the raiders were exceptionally bold, and
during the first ten days of the month visited London no fewer than
eight times. Night after night we were roused by the whistling of sirens
and the bursting of maroons, thin shells that made a big noise, warning
all that an air raid was in progress, and giving pedestrians and others
a chance to take shelter from enemy bombs and the shrapnel of the
anti-aircraft guns, the latter even a grea