I am myself no fastidious precisian, being in a Labour Company, but there are limits--or should be. My own particular grouch against them started at Ripilly-sur-Somme. They, being skilled Royal Engineers, were clearing undergrowth and putting up huts in Ripilly woods for a division due to arrive, and my scorned rabble were unloading the huts in sections from barges at Ripilly canal wharf and loading them on to lorries for transport to the woods. Chaucer and his Royal Engineers were living on the spot--Ardennes waving o'er them her green leaves and so forth--and we were in rest billets (loud roars of raucous laughter) in Ripilly village, the least sanitary spot in the whole war zone. Chaucer wouldn't let us stay with him in the huts--said the Chief Engineer was very keen on men living next their work. But between Ripilly and the canal wharf was an ideal spot. The chalk downs sloped steeply to the river, and halfway down was a bit of a level plateau just the size for a couple of huts. South aspect; good fishing and bathing; a home from home. The woods hid it from view above and the roadside poplars from below. It was a truly desirable building site. We had a hurdle-maker in our company, so I gave him a brace of light-duty men as apprentices and they built a little hut of wattle and daub. It had a nice rural appearance and was warm, but it leaked in wet weather, and the more I thought of Chaucer lying dry under his felt roofs the worse I felt about it. So I had a chat with my sergeant at the wharf, and the long and short of it was that two walls and one roof got delivered by mistake at the desirable building-site. We worked late that night, and next day had thirty men in residence, with one end of the long hut partitioned off for Simmonds, my subaltern, and myself. So far so good. I began to think about making another mistake and getting a second hut, but that evening Chaucer came sliding down over the steep turf, visibly annoyed. "Where did you get this hut?" "Found it." "On Ripilly wharf?" "Certainly not. I found it down there by the road and had it brought up here for safety. If a lorry had run over it in the dark--" "Ah, cut it out," he said. "The hut is mine. I found two odd sections in the last barge-load. Any poacher who knew his job would burn the feathers when he cooked the bird. You needn't start to explain about your fool N.C.O., who made a mistake. I keep that sort of N.C.O. myself. _If_ I get an official inquiry about this hut I shall send back official information." "Right-o! Then come in and have a drink, and don't be official before you need." That's where I was wrong. I tried to enlist the blighter's sympathy. Showed him round camp, the view, the bathing--everything. When Simmonds came up from the river with a string of roach Chaucer admitted it was a truly _bon_ billet.