“I doot he thocht ye were a lion escapit from the Scottish Zoo!” explained a brother corporal, referring to his indignant colleague’s new winter coat.

Here is another incident, with a different ending.  At one point our line approaches to within fifteen yards of the Boche trenches.  One wet and dismal dawn, as the battalion stood to arms in the neighbourhood of this delectable spot, there came a sudden shout from the enemy, and an outburst of rapid rifle fire.  Almost simultaneously two breathless and unkempt figures tumbled over our parapet into the firing-trench.  The fusillade died away.

To the extreme discomfort and shame of a respectable citizen of Bannockburn, one Private Buncle, the more hairy of the two visitors, upon recovering his feet, promptly flung his arms around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.  The outrage was repeated, by his companion, upon Private Nigg.  At the same time both visitors broke into a joyous chant of “Russky!  Russky!” They were escaped Russian prisoners.

When taken to Headquarters they explained that they had been brought up to perform fatigue work near the German trenches, and had seized upon a quiet moment to slip into some convenient undergrowth.  Later, under cover of night, they had made their way in the direction of the firing-line, arriving just in time to make a dash before daylight discovered them.  You may imagine their triumphal departure from our trenches—­loaded with cigarettes, chocolate, bully beef, and other imperishable souvenirs.

We have had other visitors.  One bright day a Boche aeroplane made a reconnaissance of our lines.  It was a beautiful thing, white and birdlike.  But as its occupants were probably taking photographs of our most secret fastnesses, artistic appreciation was dimmed by righteous wrath—­wrath which turned to profound gratification when a philistine British plane appeared in the blue and engaged the glittering stranger in battle.  There was some very pretty aerial manoeuvring, right over our heads, as the combatants swooped and circled for position.  We could hear their machine-guns pattering away; and the volume of sound was increased by the distant contributions of “Coughing Clara”—­our latest anti-aircraft gun, which appears to suffer from chronic irritation of the mucous membrane.

Suddenly the German aeroplane gave a lurch; then righted herself; then began to circle down, making desperate efforts to cross the neutral line.  But the British airman headed her off.  Next moment she lurched again, and then took a “nosedive” straight into the British trenches.  She fell on open ground, a few hundred yards behind our second line.  The place had been a wilderness a moment before; but the crowd which instantaneously sprang up round the wreck could not have been less than two hundred strong. (One observes the same uncanny phenomenon in London, when a cab-horse falls down in a deserted street.) However, it melted away at the rebuke of the first officer who hurried to the spot, the process of dissolution being accelerated by several bursts of German shrapnel.