round with the whistle over-'ead an' the crashes behind to discourage any loiterin' to gather flowers by the way. 'An' when we was well past an' slowed down again I heard the Left'nant draw a deep breath an' say soft-like ". . . a packet o' Chinese crackers." 'But 'e said something stronger that same night. He'd just crawled back to the Column wi' his empty wagons leavin' me as orderly at the Battery, an' me havin' a pressin' message to take 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, Signals?' he asked, carefully retrieving a cigarette stump from behind his ear and lighting up.