There comes a moment on a journey when something sweet, something irresistible and charming as wine raised to thirsty lips, wells up in the traveller’s being.

Every battalion has its marching songs.

The step once taken, however, we all set to work to discover how we might become soldiers with a minimum of exertion and inconvenience to ourselves.

Caste and estate seem to have been forgotten; all are engaged in a common business, full of similar risks, and rewarded by a similar wage.

I have come to like the place and do most of my writing there, catching snatches of conversation and reminiscence as they float across to me.

One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedral town has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki.

I am one of the million or more male residents of the United Kingdom, who a year ago had no special yearning towards military life, but who joined the army after war was declared.

Even the distribution of rations leaves much to be desired; the fatigue party, well-intentioned and sympathetic though it be, often finds itself short of provisions.

The soldiers' last meal is generally served out about five o'clock in the afternoon, sometimes earlier; and a stretch of fourteen hours intervenes between then and breakfast.

Divisional exercise is a great game of make-believe.