and by come you English, and all is well for dear France once more;
but I am very desolate now. I am alone but for the petite-fille
(granddaughter), but I love the English, for they save my home and
my dear country."

I heard a good many stories of this kind off and on, but this
particular one, I think, brought home, to me at least, the general
beastliness of the Hun closer than ever before. We all loved our
little kiddie very much, and when we saw the evidence of the
terrible cruelties the poor old woman had suffered we saw red. Most
of us cried a little. I think that that one story made each of us
that heard it a mean, vicious fighter for the rest of our service.
I know it did me.

One of the first things a British soldier learns is to keep
himself clean. He can't do it, and he's as filthy as a pig all the
time he is in the trenches, but he tries. He is always shaving,
even under fire, and show him running water and he goes to it like
a duck.

More than once I have shaved in a periscope mirror pegged into the
side of a trench, with the bullets snapping overhead, and rubbed my
face with wet tea leaves afterward to freshen up.

Back in billets the very first thing that comes off is the big
clean-up. Uniforms are brushed up, and equipment put in order. Then
comes the bath, the most thorough possible under the conditions.
After that comes the "cootie carnival", better known as the "shirt
hunt." The cootie is the soldier's worst enemy. He's worse than the
Hun. You can't get rid of him wherever you are, in the trenches or