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The Octogenarian was of Scotch Descent. He was the Color of an Army Saddle. He never smiled except when the Kilties came on tour. His Nippie consisted of a tall Glass about half full and then a little Well Water. A plain American Business Man with a York State Ancestry had a fat Chance against this Caledonian frame-up.
That same night a bunch of the 48th Highlanders, of Toronto, were on our right, and dug in in the bank, but there was considerable water in the bottom of their holes, while ours, compared to theirs, were beautifully dry. The Kilties came along, searching for blankets and whatever they could get, and we spared them whatever we could.
And if the church and chapel goers grumbled, I’d say, “You’re overfed. You can do without a preacher for a little.” And if they were to ask, “How do you know?” I should reply, “Because it’s hard work to get you to one meal a week. You only come once on a Sunday and often not that. That’s how I know you are not enjoying your food.” I love talking to the Scottish boys—the kilties.
This line was thereafter called the Canadian trench to distinguish it from the other, which was called the British trench. Early next morning we had a chance to see some of the "Kilties" in action with the bayonet, during a counter-attack, which they repulsed. As I remember it, they did very little shooting but jumped out of their trench to meet the attackers with the cold steel.
The infernal uproar along the Isonzo never ceased; the din of the guns resounded through the Trentino, but British and Canadian noses were sniffing at something beyond the Carnic Alps, along the slopes of which they continued to concentrate, Rifles, Kilties, and Gunners. There seemed to be no particular hurry.
From this we began to call the Kilties "Marie," and there were several harmless fights which had this for a beginning. The Kilties had a hard time of it, and had to get another dress before they could be taken on a working party. The Germans did not consider the kilt a "decent dress" for a man.
The German sergeant knew no English and could not understand his testimonial, but he tucked it in his pocket, well satisfied. In due time, he was sent to the front and was captured by "the ladies from hell," as the Germans called the Scotch kilties. He at once presented his introduction, and his captors laughed heartily when they read: "This is L . He is not a bad sort of chap.
As is inevitable in a fight of these proportions, whole brigades were mingled together, and unexpected leaders arose to take the place of those who had fallen. Many a stout piece of work was done that night by mixed bands of kilties, flat-heads, and even cyclists, marshalled in a captured German trench and shepherded by a junior subaltern.
Oh! they are great boys—the kilties. When the French first saw them they didn’t know what they were, whether they were men or women. “Don’t you know what they are?” said a bright-faced English boy. “They are what we call the Middlesex.” You can’t beat a British boy, he’s on the spot all the time—“the Middlesex!” Some of you haven’t seen the joke yet.
As the girls stood waiting they heard far down Broadway the throbbing of drums. "Listen, Ethel," cried Jane. "The Pipes!" "The Pipes!" echoed Ethel in great excitement. "The Kilties!"
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