_The Flavour of Victory_

The jolliest man in the field is the man who, so to say, has been safely
wounded, that is, whose wound is serious enough to take him right down
the line, with a good prospect of crossing to Blighty, but not so
serious as to cause anxiety. I never met so hilarious a crowd as the
first batch of wounded from the fighting of 25th September 1915. We had
been prepared for a 'rush.' The growling of the guns had for days past
been growing deeper and more extended. It is, as a matter of fact,
impossible to keep a future offensive concealed. The precise time and
place may be unknown, but the gathering together of men, the piling up
of ammunition, and the necessary preparations for great numbers of
wounded, advertise inevitably that something is afoot. The ranks are not
slow to read the signs of the times: they say, for example, that an
inspection by the divisional-general can only mean one thing. How much
crosses to the other side it is hard to say, but the local inhabitants
know all that is common talk, and sometimes a great deal more. They have
eyes in their heads; they can see practice charges being carried
through, and note which regiments carry battle-marks on their uniforms;
and the little shops and estaminets are just soldiers' clubs where
gossip is 'swapped' as freely as in the London west-end clubs, and
unfortunately, is much better informed. A woman working on a farm once
told me to what part of the line a certain division was going on
returning from rest, and she gave a date. The commanding officers of the
battalions concerned knew nothing of it, and indeed a quite contrary
rumour was in circulation, but time proved the old woman to be right.

The Loos offensive was no exception, and for many days anxious thoughts
and prayers had filled our hearts. We went from hope to despondency, and
back to hope again. I dare say the talk round the mess table was very