but shoot
the Germans as they came up, just like knocking dolls down at the fair
ground." "A very pleasant morning in the trenches," remarks one of the
Officers' Special Reserve; and another writer, after being in several
engagements, says, "This is really the best summer holiday I've ever
had."

Nothing could excel the coolness of the men under fire. With a hail of
bullets and shells raining about them they sing and jest with each
other unconcernedly. Wiping the dust of battle from his face and loading
up for another shot, a Highlander will break forth into one of Harry
Lauder's songs:

"It's a wee deoch an' doruis,
Jist a wee drap, that's a',"

and with a laugh some English Tommies will make a dash at the line "a
braw, bricht, minlicht nicht," with ludicrous consequences to the
pronunciation! According to "Joe," of the 2nd Royal Scots, the favorite
songs in the trenches or round the camp-fire are "Never Mind," and "The
Last Boat is leaving for Home." "Hitchy Koo" is another favorite, and
was being sung in the midst of a German attack. "One man near me was
wounded," says a comrade, "but he sang the chorus to the finish."

It is remarkable how these songs and witticisms steady the soldiers
under fire. In a letter in the _Evening News_ Sergeant J. Baker writes:
"Some of our men have made wonderful practise with the rifle, and they
are beginning to fancy themselves as marksmen. If they don't hit
something every time they think they ought to see a doctor about it....
Artillery fire, however, is the deadliest thing out, and it takes a lot
of nerve to stand it. The Germans keep up an infernal din from morning
till far into the night; but they don't do half as much damage as you
would think, though it is annoying to have all that row going on when
you're trying to write home or make up the regimental accounts."

Writing home is certainly done under circumstances which are apt to have
a disturbing effect upon the literary style. "Excuse this scrawl,"
writes one soldier, "the German shells have interrupted me six times
already, and I had to dash out with my bayonet before I was able to
finish it off." Another concludes: "Well, mother, I must close now. The
bullets are a bit too thick for letter-writing." To a young engineer the
experience was so strange that he describes it as "like writing in a
dream."

Some of the nick-names given by Tommy Atkins to the German shells have
already been quoted, but the most amu