Summary

Portrait of Harold Harvey Harold Harvey A Soldier's Sketches Under Fire

To join the Colours as a private soldier, he left his colours as an artist, throwing up an established and hardly-won position in the world of his profession, into which—sent home shot and poisoned—he must now fight his way back. His ante-war experiences of sojourn and travel in India, South and East Africa, South America, Egypt and the Mediterranean should again stand him in good stead, for the more an artist has learned the more comprehensive his treasury of impressions and recollections; the more he has seen the more he can show.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Harold Harvey Harold Harvey A Soldier's Sketches Under Fire

We had come to know well that wall and that window and the strewn bricks around, for we had passed the spot so often in our little excursions from trench to billet and billet to trench. A little further along the whistle of the bullets grew louder and more continuous—their sound something like the sound of soft notes whistled by a boy. Machine guns—"motor bikes" in our nomenclature—rattled our left and right, our position being that of the far apex of a triangle, exposed to inflated fire all the way up.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Harold Harvey Harold Harvey A Soldier's Sketches Under Fire

Our corporal, who was an old soldier of many campaigns, of iron physique and a perfect Goliath, and the life and soul of our party, was so tired when he got aboard the train, after strenuous efforts, that he fell dead asleep on the floor, and there was so little available space, and his massive form took up so much of what there was, that no fewer than nine men, as they became tired and dropped down from the walls of the truck, fell on him and went to sleep on the top of him.
Source: Gutenberg

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