s?"

"Ye-s, sir."

"Very well, I put you under arrest for contravening G.R.O. by trotting
draught-horses."

"Artful beggar--I know him of old," chuckled the adjutant, as he and I
returned to the cafe. "He was a gunner in my battery when I was
sergeant-major of ---- Battery, R.H.A."

The Boche was expected to attack on St George's Day. Our Brigade was
defending a reserve line, and would not fire unless the enemy swept
over our first-line system. Fresh trenches were being dug, and new and
stout rows of wire entanglement put down. Corps orders were distinct
and unmistakable. The fight here would be a fight _a outrance_. On
March 21 our retirement had been a strategic one. But this Front had to
be held at all costs, and we should throw in every reserve we had. Only
once during our stay in the cafe did the adjutant and myself sleep in
pyjamas. "These walls are so thin one 5.9 would knock the whole place
out; if we have to clear we may as well be ready," he said meaningly.
The ridge, three-quarters of a mile in front of us, was shelled
regularly, and every night enemy bombing planes came over, but,
strangely enough, the Boche gunners neglected our cross-roads; we even
kicked a football about until one afternoon a trench-mortar officer
misdirected it on to the main road, and an expressive "pop!" told of
its finish under the wheel of a motor-lorry. St George's Day, and still
no Boche attack! We began to talk of the peaceful backwater in which we
were moored. Manning, our mess waiter, decorated the stained, peeling
walls of the mess with some New Art picture post-cards. I found a quiet
corner, and wrote out a 'Punch' idea that a demand for our
water-troughs to be camouflaged had put into my head. Major Bullivant,
who had succeeded poor Harville in the command of A Battery, and Major
Bartlett of C Battery, dined with us that night, and the best story
told concerned an extremely non-military subaltern, newly attached to
the D.A.C. When instructed to deliver an important message to "Div.
Arty."--the Army condensation for "Divisional Artillery"--he pored long
and hopelessly over a map. Finally he appealed to a brother officer. "I
can't find the village of 'DIVARTY' on the map," he said, and, of
course, sprang into immediate fame throughout the Division.

April 24: About 4 A.M. a shell burst that shook the cafe. Then the
steady whistling scream of high-velocity shells going overhead. I
lighted a candle and looked at the adjutan