A shell once came and burst just the other side of the wall against which
I was standing and blew part of it over my head. I have suffered as your
boys have, and I have preached the Gospel to your boys in the front line.
I long for the privilege of doing it again.

* * * * *

If I had my way I’d take all the best preachers in Britain and I’d put
them down in France. And if the church and chapel goers grumbled, I’d say,
“You’re overfed. You can do without a preacher for a little.” And if they
were to ask, “How do you know?” I should reply, “Because it’s hard work to
get you to one meal a week. You only come once on a Sunday and often not
that. That’s how I know you are not enjoying your food.”

I love talking to the Scottish boys—the kilties. Oh! they are great
boys—the kilties. When the French first saw them they didn’t know what
they were, whether they were men or women.

“Don’t you know what they are?” said a bright-faced English boy. “They are
what we call the Middlesex.”

You can’t beat a British boy, he’s on the spot all the time—“the
Middlesex!” Some of you haven’t seen the joke yet.

* * * * *

I once went to a hut just behind the line, within the sound of the guns.
Buildings all round us had been blown to pieces. The leader of this hut
was a clergyman of the Church of England, but he wasn’t an ecclesiastic
there, he was a man amongst men, and we loved him.