“We’ll all howl when that day comes,” said Jim. “You know, Ireland has been just topping, and it’s jolly to be with old dad and Norah again; but I’m beginning to think it’s about time we got back to work. We’re fit as possible now; and we didn’t sign on to play about. This sort of thing”—he touched his rough tweed clothes—“was all very well when we were crocks. But we aren’t crocks now. I think, of course, that it was only common sense to get quite fit; they don’t want half-cured people over yonder. Still——” “Still, being cured, it’s time we dug out our khaki again,” Wally said, nodding. “I quite agree: one would begin to feel a shirker if one stayed much longer. And Australians haven’t shown themselves shirkers in this war.” “No. It’s funny, you know,” Jim reflected. “I did hate the trenches—the filth, and the flies, and the smells, and the vermin; and I used to wonder if I was a tin-soldier, and had no business to have come at all, because lots of chaps say they love it, no matter what the conditions are. Well, I didn’t love it; I’d sooner have driven bullocks, any day.” “Same here,” said Wally. “It used to buck me that you felt the same,” Jim said, “because of course I knew you weren’t any tin-soldier, and the other fellows used to say how keen you were, and that you’d get on well.” “But they said just the same to me about you, you old ass!” said Wally laughing. “Who got a special pat on the back at the last inspection, I’d like to know?” “Oh, that was only luck,” said Jim, much embarrassed. “Bit of eye-wash for the C.O. Anyway, I used to worry for fear I wasn’t any good at the game; and it worried me that I was so awfully glad to come away, after they gassed us. But lately, I’ve been a bit bucked, because I’m getting no end keen to be back. We’ll hate it again, I’m certain. But one has got to see the job through. You feel it too, don’t you?” “’M,” nodded Wally. “I suppose it’s just the beastliness one hates, but one likes one’s job.” “I expect so. I used to get horribly annoyed with young Wilson, in my platoon, but I’d like uncommonly to know how the little beggar is shaping now, and who has the handling of him. He’s a queer-tempered, obstinate, cross-grained varmint, but he’ll do anything for you if you treat him like a human being. Only you can’t drive him. I hope we’ll get our old crowds back—though I’m afraid it’s rather too much to hope for.” “I’m afraid so,” Wally agreed. “My corporal was a dear old thing; only he would persist periodically in forgetting that I was grown-up. I don’t blame them—the old N.C.O.’s know ever so much more than we do. That chap had been all over the world, and seen no end of service; he’d have had a commission if he could have kept off beer. It was when he was drunk that he used to think I was his small boy. I had my own troubles with him”—and Wally grinned reminiscently.