SCENES BEFORE BATTLE

New Zealand Times, Volume XLII, Issue 9654, 8 May 1917, Page 3

SCENES BEFORE BATTLE

“PERHAPS NEXT MINUTE DEAD.” t Grim scenes of the battlefield 1 They are described, says a Sydney exchange, in a. vivid letter home from a soldier who has been through some of the worst fighting. “Our day has come,” he writes, “and, of course, wo, who have the brunt to bear, are all very anxiolus, but whatever happens 1 would not like to be within eight'miles of the German front line when we do start. These last few days hfwe been very active, for, of course, the enemy knows what is coming. Anyway, I trust to have the good luck to come through safely. “I Was at service last night. The speaker was Canon , of Birmingham. It was all very impressive, and many a tear did I see stealing down the faces of the men. The clergyman 'said his tour in France had been a revelation to him. It had taught him how wrongly the Church generally bad gone about its work. He had found more pleasure in preaching to us than to all his previous congregations, and those who returned sale would find in the future a great difference in the work and methods of the Church. “To-day is fine but threatening. The roads are wet and muddy. A stream of mist rises from the fields and joins the pillars of sickly copper-oolpured smoke, •which belches up towards the brown sky. Sometimes a shell screams over the roofs and tears a black uncertain hole in the banks of dried grass. There are many big gaping holes in the fields where a shell has stuck its nose. A straggling, endless stream of silent, tired men is to he seen coming hack from the trenches, their faces begrimed. their clothes plastered with brown and yellow mud. Some of them have their legs covered with sandbags, one looks like a tramp, but still retains some grace of manner wdiich identifies him as a gentleman. “Further on I meet another nifin of the Regiment. He is the only one left of a platoon. He is walking between tw r o men of the R.A.M.C. His greatcoat hangs aimlessly on his shoulder, whilst fastened on the front of his jacket is a large white card. Two more R.A.M.C. men follow bearing a stretcher, and as they pass I give a hurried look at a poor yellow face between blankets.

“An old woman climbs over the wall at the edge of a field. She is the kin,d of old woman you see on the stage—black shawl, bent back, thin and shaking hands. All her possessions are in a blanket she tugs along with her. She is a ! refugee, poor thing! New troops como along. Field artillery with horses, wagons, and kitchens. There is a hum of conversation, a shuffle of feet —shouts of laughter. Ob, what a nation we are, and what men! See them laughing, hear them singing! And perhaps the they may be dead.”