I had just finished my two hours at
the listening-post, and had crawled into my dug-out for a
four-hour stretch. It was bitterly cold, and although I had
piles of sandbags over me I couldn't get warm, and, like
Bairnsfather's 'fed-up one,' had to get out and rest a bit.
Two hours of my four had passed when word came down that I
was wanted by the Sergeant-Major. Hallo, thinks I, what am I
wanted for? Ah, letters! I was a source of continued
annoyance to the Captain because of my many letters.
"However, he that expecteth nothing shall receive his seven
days' leave, for that's what it proved to be. I stood with
unbelieving ears whilst the Serjeant-Major rattled off
something to the effect that I was on the next party for
leave, and was to go down H.Q. the following night. I
crawled back to my dug-out, wondering if I was really awake.
Eventually reaching our post, I cried, 'John, my boy, this
child's on a Blightly trip.' No profuse congratulations
emanated from that quarter, but a voice from a dug-out
cried, 'Good! you can take that clip of German cartridges
home for me.' This was our souvenir hunter; he'd barter his
last biscuit for a nose cap of a Hun shell, and was a
frequenter of the artillery dug-outs. My next two hours'
guard was carried out in a very dreamy sort of way.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80