“And nobody was for not putting down anything any one said. It was all to go in on the chalk, as much as would go in the time. For they all sort of understood that the Daleswood of what they called the good old time was just the memories that those few men had of the days they had spent there together. And that was the Daleswood they loved, and wanted folks to remember. They were all agreed as to that. And then they said how was they to write it down. And when it came to writing there was so much to be said, not spread over a lot of paper I don’t mean, but going down so deep like, that it seemed to them how their own talk wouldn’t be good enough to say it. And they knew no other, and didn’t know what to do. I reckon they’d been reading magazines and thought that writing had to be like that muck. Anyway, they didn’t know what to do. I reckon their talk would be good enough for Daleswood when they loved Daleswood like that. But they didn’t, and they were puzzled. “The Boche was miles away behind them now, and his barrage with him. Still in front he did nothing. “They talked it all over and over, did the Daleswood men. They tried everything. But somehow or other they couldn’t get near what they wanted to say about old summer evenings. Time wore on. The bowlder was smooth and ready, and that whole generation of Daleswood men could find no words to say what was in their hearts about Daleswood. There wasn’t time to waste. And the only thing they thought of in the end was ‘Please, God, remember Daleswood just like it used to be.’ And Bill and Harry carved that on the chalk between them. “What happened to the Daleswood men? Why, nothing. There come one of them counter-attacks, a regular bastard for Jerry. The French made it and did the Boche in proper. I got the story from a man with a hell of a great big hammer, long afterwards when that trench was well behind our line. He was smashing up a huge great chunk of chalk because he said they all felt it was so damn silly.” The Road The battery Sergeant-Major was practically asleep. He was all worn out by the continuous roar of bombardments that had been shaking the dugouts and dazing his brains for weeks. He was pretty well fed up. The officer commanding the battery, a young man in a very neat uniform and of particularly high birth, came up and spat in his face. The Sergeant-Major sprang to attention, received an order, and took a stick at once and beat up the tired men. For a message had come to the battery that some English (God punish them!) were making a road at X.