The Washington herald. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1906-1939, 1916-04-10

TSALEs from the firing line? Yes,
hundreds of them. Deathless rec
4 ords of brave deeds and Of sut-
ferings endured to the last! No
fuss, no boastfulness-jus quiet heroism
that seeks to pass unnoticed.
From certain muddy trench out in
Flanders comes wonderful story OF
self-sacrffice. "Whir-r-rl" came a whiz-
zing bomb among a group Of men. and
fell at their feet ready to explode. In
Simultaneous death stared them in the
face. With a rush a young Londoner
named Drewitt hurled himself upon the
bomb, and in the supreme sacrifice OF
his own life saved all his comrades. Tears
came TO the eyes OF the officer who tcld
the tale. such fine young fellow!' he
said. such heroismr'
To die for q comrade Is esteemed
high privilege in the soldiers simple
heart. Young Private Brannen. who
made a gallant dash under enemy ire
to rescue a wounded friend, Private Kell,
achieved his object, dragged MIN into
safety, then pitched headlolg into the
trench with a bullet through his cwn
heart. Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for
his friend wrote Private Kell to the
hero's mother. IF he had lived, he
he has gone to q greater reward"
Yet another tale. In the toughest or
rough regiments known as the 'Taughs,"
a young theological student enlisted, with
quiet, refined ways that at once drew
the attention of the men. I'VE don't
want no gentlemen here" some of them
declared-and forthwith started to make
the boys life a misery to him. The
Parson" he was Northumberland all
through the months of training, his lot
was not happy one.
As Private Jones aptly described the
situation afterward: IF somebody vas
going to be pushed in the face, well-the
Parson got It. II we wanted to slip our
fatigues on to some one, he was the
one who got the slip. He was too quiet,
y see-never would join in sport. Any
body could walk over MINDLESS your
heart, when I sneaked his spare trousers
just before a kit inspection, he took II
like lamb, and came out wearing all
he had, which wasn't much! The SER
geants language was awful to hear, too. .
II appeared there was one particularly
rough soldier nicknained Dog" who de-
tested the little Parson. Out in the
trenches, too. the petty persecution con-
tinued. Dog" even struck the Parson
once. and was furious when the boy, in
stead of hitting back. controlled him
self sufficiently to smile.
lone day when we'd had a sharp
skirmish with the Germans" said Pri-
vste Jones, continuing the tale, and
when we'd scrambled back to our
trenches, we found an officer was miss
ing. 1t was then that the Parson showed
US his real nature. Up and over the
parapet he went, to look for the officer,
and, wonder Of wonders! Dog fol-
lowed. There was a perfect hurricane
of fire, and-they didn't come back!
Hours later, we sighted them with a
periscope. They were in a kind of hoI-
low made by the exploding of a Big
Lizzie, and we could see Dog lying with
his head in the Parsons lap, and the
Parson was talking to him. We saw,
too. that the Parson was shielding dog
from stray bullets with his own body.
They were like that all day.
TT was after dark that we got them"
continued Private Jones, . strange
gruffness in his voice, I'VE heard the
Parson still talking softly to Dog.
Here they are at last; you'll soon be bet
ter now he was saying. Dog was
wounded in the thigh, but the Parson
had put dressings on him and we knew
at once he'd pull round.
Then we saw why the Parson hadn't
brought Dog in. The Parsons leg was
blown off, smashed clean away above
the knee. He'd sat there all day long
holding Dog and never complained. He
died"
Private Jones blew his nose violently.
I've bit of a cold in my head to-
night" said he. Yes, that little Par.
son chap was a white man through and
through
The trench newspaper is a regular in.
stiution. 1t may only be scrubbed on
odd scraps of paper fastened together
with bit OF wire or set forth
in clear typewriter style Sometimes
IT is stained with blood. as was the
Pitcher, the bombers' newspaper, when
the editor was blown to pieces at the
press. In q corner OF the sheet his
youthful assistant, though wounded, had
scribbled, "Nobody's left but the print
ers devil-yours truly!
Such courage, such optimism. in these
papers. written right in the face Of death.
And the Jokes! It's a poor trench that
hasn't its own recorded declares The
Casper, the clever journal Of the IA
nous Fusiliers. The Gaspers "Toothless
Rhymes for Ruthless Times" are as
amusing verse as one could wish to read.
The Gazette of the Canadians, and the
Salient and the Daily Strafe simply TEEN
with wit and fun.
There's the absurd poem about the boy
in the Artists Rifles who kept playing
Chopin's Funeral March" on q machine
gun, and who one day decided to mend
his trousers with patch taken from a
German cloak. ''whi8z!' came a shell
and "BangF went the para pet near him,
blowing the would-be patcher high in
the air and utterly demolishing his
trousers. Quite unperturbed, however,
the boy returned to his post, and con-
tlnued there for several hours "all breech
and no breeches," till dusk brought him
modest obscurity and another pairI
Another trench newspaper written in
pencil records the tale of the sergeant
in the North Lancashires who was skill
fully carrying an eighty-pound cheese
on his head when q shell exploded near
by and he reported his burden as
''Eounded in nineteen places, but the
bearer quite sound, though with pulse
doing tango timer
In the sporting column, too, there's the
record Of the two daredevil Leinsters
who to decide a trifling bet actually did
a 1OO-yard race In the deadly No-afan's-
Land between the trenches, with as
founded Germans sniping at them from
start to finish!
We're all cast in che same mold. Only
some of us are moldier than others %
is the motto Of one Of these gay journals.
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