and they had at last to leave us.  I got a sword thrust in the ribs, and then a bullet in me, and went under for a time, but when the mist cleared from my eyes I could see the boys cutting up the Germans entirely.”  The losses were heavy, and the comment was made in camp that the Germans had cleaned up the “Dirty Shirts” for once.  “Well,” said an indignant Fusilier, “it was a moighty expensive washin’ for them annyway.”

How Private Parker of the Inniskilling Fusiliers escaped from four Uhlans who had taken him prisoner is an example of personal daring.  His captors marched him off between them till they came to a narrow lane where the horsemen could walk only in single file—­three in front of him and one behind.  He determined to make a bid for liberty.  Ducking under the rear horse he seized his rifle, shot the Uhlan, and disappeared in the darkness.  For days he lay concealed, and on one occasion German searchers entered the room in which he was hidden, yet failed to find him.

Private Court, 2nd Royal Scots, pays a tribute to the gallantry of the Connaught Rangers, and tells how they saved six guns which had been taken by the enemy.  The sight of British guns in German hands was too much for the temper of the Connaughts, who came on with an irresistible charge, compelling the guns to be abandoned, and enabling the Royal Field Artillery to dash in and drag them out of danger.  Another soldier relates that the Connaughts were trapped by a German abuse of the white flag and suffered badly when, all unsuspecting, they went to take over their prisoners; but they left their mark on the enemy on that occasion, and “when the Connaught blood is up,” as one of the Rangers expresses it, “it’s a nasty job to be up agin it.”

Stories of Irish daring might be multiplied, but these are sufficient to show that the old regiments are still full of the fighting spirit.  “Now boys,” one of their non-commissioned officers is reported to have said, “no surrender for us!  Ye’ve got yer rifles, and yer baynits, and yer butts, and after that, ye divils, there’s yer fists.”  A drummer of the Irish Fusiliers who had lost his regiment, met another soldier on the road and begged for the loan of his rifle “just to get a last pop at the divils.”  Sir John French is himself of Irish parentage—­Roscommon and Galway claim him—­and there is no more ardent or cheerful fighter in the British army.

“It beats Banagher,” says a jocular private in the Royal Irish, “how these Germans always disturb us at meal times.  I suppose it’s just the smell of the bacon that they’re after, and Rafferty says we can’t be too careful where we stow the mercies.”  From all accounts the Germans taken prisoner are about as ill-fed as they are ill-informed.  Private Harkness of the same regiment, says the captives’ first need is food and then information.  One of them asked him why the Irish weren’t fighting in their own civil war.  “Faith,” said he, “this is the only war we know about for the time being, and there’s mighty little that’s civil about it with the way you’re behaving yourselves.”  The German looked gloomy, and, added Harkness, “I don’t think he liked a plain Irishman’s way of putting things.”