The one I potted got his arms round me before he coughed himself out, calling me his 'liebe Elsa,' and wanting to kiss me.

Lord! You can guess how the Boche ink-slingers spread themselves over that business: 'Sonderbar! Colossal! Unvergessliche Helden.' Poor devils!" "They'll give us ginger before it is over," said another.

He had had both his lips torn away, and appeared to be always laughing.

"Stuff it into us as if we were horses at a fair.

That will make us run forward, right enough." "Oh, come," struck in a youngster who was lying perfectly flat, face downwards on his bed: it was the position in which he could breathe easiest.