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We were expected, and the English Tommies determined to give us right royal welcome and a hearty handshake. We had a reputation to keep up, for in England the Cockney Tommy and his brother "civvies" had named us the "Singing Can-ydians." But on the road to Armentières ... oh, ma foi! There was no singing.
It was rousing, it was thrilling, it was a welcome that did our hearts good; but we could not rise to the occasion. Suddenly from out of the crowd of khaki figures there came a voice that of a true son of the East End a suburb of Whitechapel was surely his cappy home. "S'y, 'ere comes the Singin' Can-ydians ... 'Ere they come ... 'Ear their singin'." Not a sound from our ranks. Silence.
Call us rather the "Swearing Can-ydians," as we stumbled, bent double, lifting swollen feet, like Agag, treading on eggs through the streets of the city. Tommy Atkins to right of us; Tommy Atkins to left of us, cobblestones beneath us, we staggered and swayed. The English boys cheered and yelled a greeting.
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