He went outside and made his way to the dressing station. Dawn found him snug in a motor ambulance on his way to hospital. CHAPTER X LOST TO THE WIDE There's a rum jar in the dug-out and a parcel in the post-- Fol ol the diddle ol the dee! And I couldn't be much colder were I handcuffed to a ghost-- Fol ol the diddle ol the dee! There's a quartermaster-sergeant and the dug-out's his abode-- Fol ol the diddle ol the dee! And a shell has hit the mail-bag and it's scattered on the road-- Fol ol the diddle ol the dee! (_From "The Strafed Mail-bag."_) It was past eight o'clock of a January evening and the soldiers in "Home Sweet Home" dug-out sat down late to tea. The dug-out was situated at the bottom of a chalk-pit near Vimy Ridge and was occupied by officers' servants, company runners, signallers and others who generally kept in close touch with battalion headquarters. The chalk pit was more or less immune from shell fire, for, being narrow and deep, it was difficult for a shell to reach the bottom, round which a ring of spacious dug-outs circled. Over the top and five hundred yards eastwards ran the communication trench which wound its way discreetly up to the British front line. Lights gleamed in the dug-outs and sounds of laughter and singing could be heard from "Home Sweet Home." It was a capacious shelter, originally fashioned by the French, and capable of holding thirty men. At the present moment it contained some fifteen British soldiers engaged in the pleasant task of eating a substantial meal. Rations as well as the post had just come up from the railhead, rum was issued, and the parcels from home had been bulky. The meal was proceeding merrily. Some of the men were laughing and chatting, sitting on the ground, their knees crossed and mess-tins of steaming tea in their hands. Two or three were stripped and their wet clothes were hung over the fire in the brazier. All were so cool and happy that it was difficult to believe that the German shells were just dropping outside the door.... Suddenly the waterproof sheet that covered the door was raised and a newcomer entered. He stood for a moment looking round, then he approached an up-ended ammunition box which stood in the centre of the dug-out and sat down on it. "Oh, it's old Fitzgerald," exclaimed Flanagan, now of the signalling section, who was endeavouring, with the aid of a bayonet, to draw the cork from a rum jar. "How are things going on up at Vimy?" he asked. "Not so bad," Fitzgerald answered. "There's plenty of shells flying across, and now and again we get a Minnie, saucy devil. We do get more than is good for our health. Vimy is not the most pleasant place on our front. I've helped to take a prisoner down." "A prisoner?" Flanagan exclaimed, handing Fitzgerald a drop of rum in a mess-tin. "A German?"