“Don’t expect much for breakfast,” said the _strafer_ of the chicken. But it was eggs and bacon, the British stand-by in all weathers, at home and abroad. J---- was going to turn in and sleep. These youngsters could sleep at any time; for one hour, or two hours, or five, or ten, if they had a chance. A sudden burst of rifle-fire was the alarm clock which always promptly awakened them. The recollection of cheery hospitality and their fine, buoyant spirit is even clearer now than when I left the trench. XXI A SCHOOL IN BOMBING War specialism--A school on a French farm--A lesson--“Bombing them out”--Fighting in zigzag traverses--Cold steel--The bomb storehouse--All shapes and sizes--Revivals of Roman legionary days--A home-made product--A fool-proof, up to the minute and popular (except with the “Boches”) variety. It was at a bombing school on a French farm, where chosen soldiers brought back from the trenches were being trained in the use of the anarchists’ weapon, which has now become as respectable as the rifle. The war has steadily developed specialism. M.B. degrees for Master Bombers are not beyond the range of possibilities. Present was the chief instructor, a young Scotch subaltern with blue eyes, a pleasant smile, and a Cock o’ the North spirit. He might have been twenty years old, though he did not look it. On his breast was the purple and white ribbon of the new order of the Military Cross, which you get for doing something in this war which would have won you a Victoria Cross in one of the other wars. Also present was the assistant instructor, a sergeant of regulars-- and very much of a regular--who had three ribbons which he had won in previous campaigns. He, too, had blue eyes, bland blue eyes. These two understood each other. “If you don’t drop it, why, it’s all right!” said the sergeant. “Of course, if you do--” I did not drop it. “And when you throw it, sir, you must look out and not hit the man behind and knock the bomb out of your hand. That has happened before to an absent-minded fellow who was about to toss one at the _Boches_, and it doesn’t do to be absent-minded when you throw bombs.” “They say that you sometimes pick up the German bombs and chuck them back before they explode,” it was suggested. “Yes, sir, I’ve read things like that in some of the accounts of the reporters who write from Somewhere in France. You don’t happen to know where that is, sir? All I can say is that if you are going to do it you must be quick about it. I shouldn’t advise delaying your decision, sir, or perhaps when you reached down to pick it up, neither your hand nor the bomb would be there. They’d have gone off together, sir.” “Have you ever been hurt in your handling of bombs?” I asked. Surprise in the bland blue eyes.