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It is perhaps unnecessary to state that none of the sketches in this book refer to any particular individual. They are not arranged in chronological order; they do not pretend to be anything more than mere impressions of the grim drama now being played across the water.

Some of those pictured in these pages have gone across the Vale of Shadows: may the earth lie lightly on them, one and all. Others there are who, perchance, may think they recognise themselves here and there: to them I dedicate the book.

The setting in most of the sketches is the salient of Ypres: there may be some who will recognise—not, I trust, without a throb of pleasure—Hooge, Frizenburg, the Meningate, and other health resorts of that delectable neighbourhood.

But should I lift in the smallest degree, for those who wait behind, the curtain that shrouds "somewhere in France," and show them the tears and the laughter, the humour and the pathos that go to form the atmosphere over yonder, I shall be well satisfied.

I am no artist in words, but—"Each in his separate star shall paint the thing as he sees it for the God of things as they are."