back for more shells I trotted
out an' got back soon after he did. I took my message to the old farm
where the officers was billeted an' the mess-man takes my note in. I got
a glimpse o' the Left'nant wi' his jacket an' boots off an' his breeches
followin' suit. "I'd a rotten day," he was sayin', "but one good point
about this Am. Col. job--an' the only one I see--is that you get the
night in bed wi' your breeches off."

'But if you'd only 'eard 'im when he found he was for the road again at
once an' would spend 'is night in the rain an' dark instead of in
bed--well, I couldn't repeat 'is language, not 'aving the talent to 'is
extent.

''E was transferred to a battery soon after an' I 'eard that when he got
the orders all 'e 'ad to say was, "Thank 'Eaven. I'll mebbe get shelled
oftener in a battery, but at least I'll 'ave the satisfaction o' shellin'
back--an' _I may_ 'ave a funk-hole handy to duck in when it's extry hot,
instead o' ridin' on the road an' expectin' to go off like a packet 'o
crackers."

'Mebbe he was right,' concluded the Bombardier reflectively. 'But I
s'pose it's entirely a matter o' taste, an' how a man likes bein' killed
off.'

[1] Servant.

[2] The identity of the town is very effectually placed beyond
recognition by the Bombardier's pronunciation.

THE SIGNALLER'S DAY

The gun detachment were curled up and dozing on the damp straw of their
dug-out behind the gun when the mail arrived. The men had had an early
turn-out that morning, had been busy serving or standing by the gun all
day, and had been under a heavy shell fire off and on for a dozen hours
past. As a result they were fairly tired--the strain and excitement of
being under fire are even more physically exhausting somehow than hard
bodily labour--and might have been hard to rouse. But the magic words
'The mail' woke them quicker than a round of gun-fire, and they sat up
and rubbed the sleep from their eyes and clustered eagerly round the
Number One (sergeant in charge of the detachment) who was 'dishing out'
the letters. Thereafter a deep silence fell on the dug-out, the
recipients of letters crowding with bent heads round the guttering
candle, the disappointed ones watching them with envious eyes.

An exclamation of deep disgust from the Signaller brought no comment
until the last letter was read, but then the Limber Gunner remembered
and remarked on it.

'What was that you was rearin' up an' snortin' over,