While looking at these pictures, you could also listen to the voices of the veterans talking about their experiences here and here. One of the men, Jack, is from East Anglia, he sounds like my Grandad, very affecting...
The Leader of the Blind
In July 1918, at a casualty clearing station occupying temporary quarters in the old College of St. Vincent at ruined Senlis we dealt with 7,000 wounded in eight days. One night when we were more busy than usual an ambulance car brought up a load of gas-blinded men. A little man whose voice proclaimed the city of his birth - arm broken and face blistered with mustard gas, though he alone of the party could see - jumped out, looked around, and then whispered in my ear, “All serene, guv’nor, leave ‘em to me.” He turned towards the car and shouted inside, “Dalston junction, change here for Hackney, Bow, and Poplar.” Then gently helping each man to alight, he placed them in a line with right hand on the shoulder of the man in front, took his position forward and led them all in, calling softly as he advanced, “Slow march, left, left, I had a good job and I left it.”
Henry T. Lowde (late 63rd C.C.S., R.A.M.C.), 101 Stanhope Gardens, Harringay, N.4
The Muffin Man
Two companies of a London regiment were relieving each other on a quiet part of the line, late in the evening of a dismal sort of day. The members of the ingoing company were carrying sheets of corrugated iron on their heads for the purpose of strengthening their position. A member of the outgoing company, observing a pal of his with one of these sheets on his head, bawled out: “‘Ullo, ‘Arry, what’cher doing of?” to which came the laconic reply: “Selling muffins, but I’ve lost me blinkin’ bell.”
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