Strange sights are seen upon that battle-ground,
      But stranger still are unearthed from below;
    Here many supermen may now be found,
      Just watch those stretcher-bearers where they go,
    And see those parties bearing food and drink,
    Past all those blizzard shells—­then stand and think!

    But one poor shell-crazed loon roamed far and wide;
      Sweat-grimed, wild-eyed, and now bereft of all. 
    ‘Me mates?  W’ere is my mates?’ he plaintive cried,
      ’They’s in that ‘ole with me when it did fall.’ 
    We took him to three huddled heaps near by,
    But he roamed on as tho’ he wished to die.

    And as the sun’s great light bursts o’er the scene,
      La Petit Douve, one-time a sparkling stream,
    Now sluggish slides, red-tinted, she has been
      Past horrors thro’ the night and did not dream. 
    For many days she’ll, silent, strive to bear
    Such human wreckage down a path once fair.

G.P.  CUTTRISS and J.W.  HOOD.

[Illustration:  The illustrator feeling happy, yet looking ‘board.’]

[Illustration]

BILL THE BUGLER

I well remember when the subject of this sketch ‘joined up.’  He was small of stature, and his general appearance was by no means prepossessing.  That he had seen a good deal of the world was very evident, even to the most superficial observer.  His language was picturesque, though not profane.  A few weeks sufficed to ’lick him into shape,’ and he presented a fairly tolerable figure in uniform.  At spinning yarns he was an adept, and at camp concerts could invariably be depended upon for an item or two, always of a humorous nature.

Bill quickly established himself amongst the ‘boys’ as a general favourite.  This enviable position he still occupies.  On account of his duties as bugler requiring him to be one of the first up in the morning, and one of the last to retire at night, he sought a change of duty.  He became a bandsman, then a stretcher-bearer, and eventually was detailed to assist in a cook-house—­in cook-house terminology an ‘off-sider.’

Though Bill had as much military experience as most of us, we could not think of him as a soldier.  That our opinion of him was justified the following incident will illustrate.  A party of officers, including a staff-major, was inspecting cooking and billeting arrangements in our quarters.  Bill, who happened to have a couple of hours off that day, was strolling towards the party.  He was in cook-house attire—­tunicless, his hat well back on his head, shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands deep in his breeches pockets, a cigarette between his lips.  Regardless of the critical eyes which were focused upon him, he sauntered leisurely towards the officers, and when in line with them he nodded and said ‘Good-day.’  The officers stopped, and one of them peremptorily inquired, ‘Aren’t you a soldier?’ ‘Oh, no,’ he replied; ‘I’m D Company’s cook!’ His reply so amused the officers that he was allowed to continue on his way without being reminded that as a soldier he was required to salute all officers.