But he is a cheerful soul. The other day, when we were romancing around in the Somme, we had to take over a new line; one of those “lines” that genial old beggar Fritz makes for us with 5.9’s. He--the Scout Officer--rose to the occasion. He went to the Commanding Officer, and in his most ingratiating manner, his whole earnest soul in his pale blue eyes, offered to take him up to his battle head-quarters. This offer was accepted, albeit the then Adjutant had a baleful glitter in _his_ eye. After he had led us by ways that were strange and peculiar through the gathering darkness, and after the Colonel had fallen over some barbed wire into a very damp shell-hole, he began to look worried. We struck a very famous road--along which even the worms dare not venture--and our Intelligence Officer led us for several hundred yards along it. An occasional high explosive shrapnel shell burst in front and to rear of us, but, map grasped firmly in the right hand, our Scout Officer led us fearlessly onwards. He did not march, he did not even walk, he sauntered. Then with a dramatic gesture wholly unsuited to the time and circumstances, he turned and said: “Do you mind waiting a minute, sir, while I look at the map?” After a few brief comments the C.O. went to earth in a shell-hole. The Scout Officer sat down in the road, and examined his map by the aid of a flash-light until the Colonel threw a clod of earth at him accompanied by some very uncomplimentary remarks. “I think, sir,” said the Scout Officer, his gaunt frame and placid countenance illumined by shell-bursts, “that if we cross the road and go North by East we may perhaps strike the communication trench leading to the Brewery. _Personally_, I would suggest going overland, but----” His last words were drowned by the explosion of four 8.1’s 50 yards rear right. “Get out of this, sir! Get out of this DAMN quick,” roared the C.O. The Scout Officer stood to attention slowly, and saluted with a deprecating air. He led. We followed. He took us straight into one of the heaviest barrages it had ever been our misfortune to encounter, and when we had got there he said he was lost. So for twenty minutes the C.O., the Adjutant, nine runners, and, last but not least, the Scout Officer, sat under a barrage in various shell-holes, and prayed inwardly--with the exception of the Scout Officer--that _he_ (the S.O.) would be hit plump in the centre of his maps by a 17-inch shell. It were well to draw a veil over what followed. Even Holmes-Watson does not like to hear it mentioned. Suffice to say that the C.O. (with party) left at 5.30 P.M. and arrived at battle head-quarters at 11.35 P.M. The Scout Officer was then engaged in discovering a route between Battle H.Q. and the front line. He reported back at noon the following day, and slept in a shell-hole for thirteen hours. No one could live near the C.O. for a week, and he threatened the S.O. with a short-stick MILLS.