Summary

Anonymous With a Highland Regiment in Mesopotamia

The sound of battle was dying, even as the day was dying. "The world was like a nun, breathless in adoration." And we soldiers, absorbed in this remote corner of the world war, intent on the hour immediately before us, lay there breathless in expectancy. Suddenly our 18-pounders opened gun fire. With rare precision shrapnel burst all along the enemy trenches, and at 6-30, as the shelling slackened in intensity, the Highlanders rose as one man, their bayonets gleaming in the setting sun, and, with the Gurkhas on their left, rushed across the open. There was little work for the bayonet.
Source: Gutenberg

Anonymous With a Highland Regiment in Mesopotamia

Standing this morning on these ancient ramparts, I watch the sun rise over this land which, once so rich and fertile, now shows hardly a sign of human habitation, this country where not a tree nor a house has been allowed for many years to stand, over which the blight of misrule has lain as a curse for centuries and I see yet one more army going forth to battle; once again columns of armed men sweep forth to encounter similar columns, to kill and to capture within sight of the Median Wall.
Source: Gutenberg

Anonymous With a Highland Regiment in Mesopotamia

The needle pricks before, not during, the race. "Remember only the happy hours," and if the most glorious hour in life is the hour of victory in battle, so are the hours preceding battle among the most depressing. I confess, as we sat there idle in the chill dawn, my mind was filled not only with the hope of victory and captured trenches, but with memories of past scenes in France and Mesopotamia, and of a strip of ground the evening after Magersfontein, each battlefield dotted with little groups of men lying rigid, each marked with lines of motionless forms.
Source: Gutenberg

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