"About a matter of nine months."

"You've been lucky," said Mervin, my mate.

"I haven't gone West yet, if that's what you mean," was the answer.
"'Oo are you?"

"The London Irish."

"Territorials?"

"That's us," someone said.

"First time up this way?"

"First time."

"I knew that by the size of your packs," said the man, the smile
reaching his lips. "Bloomin' pack-horses you look like. If you want a
word of advice, sling your packs over a hedge, keep a tight grip (p. 051)
of your mess-tin, and ram your spoon and fork into your putties. My
pack went West at Mons."

"You were there then?"

"Blimey, yes." was the answer.

"How did you like it?"

"Not so bad," said the man. "'Ave a drink and pass the mess-tin round.
There is only one bad shell, that's the one that 'its you, and if
you're unlucky it'll come your way. The same about the bullet with
your number on it; it can't miss you if it's made for you. And if ever
you go into a charge--Think of your pals, matey!" he roared at the man
who was greedily gulping down the contents of the mess-tin, "You're
swigging all the stuff yourself. For myself I don't care much for this
beer, it has no guts in it, one good English pint is worth an ocean of
this dashed muck. Good-bye"--we were moving off, "and good luck to
you!"

Mervin, perspiring profusely, marched by my side. He and I have been
great comrades, we have worked, eaten, and slept together, and
committed sin in common against regimental regulations. Mervin has
been a great traveller, he has dug for gold in the Yukon, grown
oranges in Los Angeles, tapped for rubber in Camerango (I don't (p. 052)
know where the place is, but I love the name), and he can eat a tin of
bully beef, and relish the meal. He is the only man in our section who
can enjoy it, one of us cares only for cheese, and few grind biscuits
when they can beg bread.

A battalion is divided into four companies, a company contains four
platoons made up of sections of unequal strength; our section
consisted of thirteen--there are only four boys left now, Mervin has
been killed, five have been wounded, two have become stretcher
bearers, and one has left us to join another company in which one of
his mates is placed. Poor Mervin! How sad it was to lose him, and much
sadder is it for his sweetheart in England. He was engaged; often he
told me of his dreams of a farm, a quiet cottage and a garden at home
when the war came to an end. Somewhere