“You know, sir,” said a sergeant-major, one day, when I walked with him down a communication trench so waterlogged that my top-boots were full of slime, “it doesn’t do to take this war seriously.”

And, as though in answer to him, a soldier without breeches and with his shirt tied between his legs looked at me and remarked, in a philosophical way, with just a glint of comedy in his eyes:

“That there Grand Fleet of ours don’t seem to be very active, sir. It’s a pity it don’t come down these blinkin’ trenches and do a bit of work!”

“Having a cleanup, my man?” said a brigadier to a soldier trying to wash in a basin about the size of a kitchen mug.

“Yes, sir,” said the man, “and I wish I was a blasted canary.”