eat a bite. Tummy out of order, my 'ead spinnin' like a top.
When's sick parade?" he asked.

"Seven o'clock," I said, "Is it as bad as that?"

"Worse than that," he answered with a smile, "'Ave yer a cigarette to
spare?"

"Yes," I answered, fumbling in my pocket.

"Well, give it to somebody as 'asn't got none," said Bill, "I'm off
the smokin' a bit."

The case was really serious since Bill could not smoke, a smokeless
hour was for him a Purgatorial period, his favourite friend was his
fag. After tea I went with him to the dressing station, and Ted Vittle
of Section 4 accompanied us. Ted's tummy was also out of order and his
head was spinning like a top. The men's equipment was carried (p. 272)
out, men going sick from the trenches to the dressing-station at the
rear carry their rifles and all portable property in case they are
sent off to hospital. The sick soldier's stuff always goes to hospital
with him.

I stood outside the door of the dressing-station while the two men
were in with the M.O. "What's wrong, Bill?" I asked when he came out.

"My tempratoor's an 'undred and nine," said my comrade.

"A hundred and what?" I ejaculated.

"'Undred point nine 'is was," said Ted Vittle. "Mine's a 'undred point
eight. The Twentieth 'as 'ad lots of men gone off to 'orsp to-day
sufferin' from the same thing. Pyraxis the M.O. calls it. Trench fever
is the right name."

"Right?" interrogated Bill.

"Well it's a name we can understand," said Ted.

"Are you going back to the trenches again?" I asked.

"We're to sleep 'ere to-night in the cellar under the dressin'-station,"
they told me. "In the mornin' we're to report to the doctor again.
'E's a bloke 'e is, that doctor. 'E says we're to take nothing (p. 273)
but heggs and milk and the milk must be boiled."

"Is the army going to supply it?"

"No blurry fear," said Bill. "Even if we 'ad the brass and the
appetite we can't buy any milk or heggs 'ere."

I went back to the firing trench alone. Bill and Ted Vittle did not
return the next day or the day after. Three weeks later Bill came
back.

We were sitting in our dug-out at a village the bawl of a donkey from
Souchez, when a jew's harp, playing ragtime was heard outside.

"Bill," we exclaimed in a voice, and sure enough it was Bill back to
us again, trig and tidy from hospital, in a new uniform, new boots and
with that air of importance which can only be the privilege of a man
who has seen strange sig