Something of a Myth
“Our game sounds comfortable and protected, but that is a myth. It is a mystery how ever any of us got there or got back. You feel very important because you are heralded, followed and encircled by miniature geysers of earth, smoke and biff-bang! Your own infantry flees from you as if you bore the plague. A good many of our lot got into serious trouble, and quite a few faces of chums are missing to-day. The day for the British Army was a veritable howling success, and the Boche fought here with no spirit at all. They bolted like rabbits, throwing away rifles and equipment, some back to Berlin and some to us, hands up, and Kamerading. Our casualties were very light, indeed, owing to the absolutely artistic work of the artillery; and with our airmen the combination is unbeatable. These wonderful airmen! Like meteors in the sky, they swoop and fly, entirely regardless of everything but the job on hand.
“Our men fight so cheerfully and whimsically and sarcastically. There is no vestige of hate toward the Boche, only an abiding disgust and hearty contempt—a feeling as toward a mongrel who has fairly gone and got hydrophobia and must be killed to save valuable human life. We are really most jubilant over the past three days’ work, and every one is smiling and happy and cracking jokes. Gramophones are whirling at top speed, bands are playing in the camps, pipes are skirling and moaning and quickening the pulse, and the Hun is licking his wounds in silence over there to the east, in silence and afraid.”
The War Office took cognizance of the little affair:
“London, July 12th, 1917.
“To ——:
“Beg to inform you that Lieutenant Z., Heavy Branch Machine-Gun Corps, was wounded June 7th, but remained at duty.
“Secretary, War Office.”
On June 20th the Military Cross was awarded to Lieutenant Z.