The worst days of the war passed when the chance of the Hun defeating us
was lost. Though all the flower of our manhood were crippled or dead,
though our old men and our boys were called to the field, though women had
to gird on sword and buckler, none of these things could be worse than to
be licked--licked is the word--by a dastardly and cowardly foe.
And if the German Army at the zenith of its strength could not lick one
thin line of English, of French and Canadians, how can they lick us when we
have Uncle Sam in the balance?
A question to daunt even the scientific brain of a Kaiser, of a Hindenburg,
of a Von Bernstorff.
The folks back home are always wondering and inquiring how it is possible
to feed the troops under such terrible and awful conditions. The folks back
home are the only ones who worry. We do not. Tommy Atkins is much more sure
of getting his rations to-morrow than he is of living until to-morrow to
eat them.
Right here I would pay a sincere tribute to two departments of our British
Army. The Commissary Department which supplies every want of the soldier,
from a high explosive shell to a button.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94