He was an Irish boy and belonged to the section at St. Alban's in the old days. He was a fine-looking youth of medium height, with heavy dark hair, an intelligent forehead, impassioned nostrils and an air of aloofness which became him well. He had a frank and open expression, pensive grey eyes and high cheekbones. He came from the West of Ireland and had studied for the priesthood. But feeling that this was not his vocation he entered the Civil Service. His people belonged to an old Irish family full of pride and poverty. Flanagan, though well educated, was a bit of a rake and loved the bottle. When excited he spoke with a delicious brogue and paid little heed to his grammar, but he was an omnivorous reader and carried a number of books about with him in his haversack. Montaigne was a great favourite of his. He had gone home badly wounded seven months earlier and his mates never expected to see him out in France again. He was now sitting in a corner of the dug-out, his handsome face radiant with joy and eagerness, betraying a certain boyish innocence which in no way detracted from the dignity of his features. "You've come back again, Flan?" Bowdy said, and gripped him by the hand. "Yes, I'm back again," he answered. "Glad to be with us?" Bowdy queried. "Glad to leave London and come out here?" "Of course I am," he answered, handing Benners a cigarette. The confession staggered Benners, but in a way he was not surprised. Flanagan was a youngster who took eagerly to the life of war, its romance and roving. He wanted to attempt everything; nothing was too big for him. With him it was no sooner see than try, and his store of enthusiasm was so unbounded that he generally succeeded in most projects. But to come back again when his wound must surely have been a permanent Blighty one! "Why have you come back?" Bowdy asked. "Tell me all about it while I rouse the brazier and make a mess-tin of tea." "A mess-tin of tea!" he exclaimed, as Bowdy bent over the brazier. "God, it's good to hear that, old man! The cups are so small at home. Little things. But a mess-tin full! Heavens, things are done on such a big scale in the trenches! One gets long hours of fighting, of working, of watching. Everything is taken in big mouthfuls here; there's nothing petty in the job. But at home--the soft beds--but I could not sleep; the little tea-cups--but I had no appetite; the politeness, the swank, the fine dresses--but the whole thing made me ill. We've been looking on the gods here, and I went back to live with ordinary mortals--I couldn't stick it!" "You're a big fool, Flan," said Benners, as he fanned the brazier with a week-old copy of an English paper. "I would like to get home. I'd be in no hurry...."