To the left of the church was a snug little graveyard hidden in a spinney, and here a number of English soldiers were buried. Under a large tree stood a broken and rusty pump which was out of action. A large shell had fallen there and after the explosion some soldiers found a robin, dead. They buried it and were moved to poetry in inscribing the little bird's epitaph. The epitaph, written in large black letters, hung from the handle of the pump. This was the verse:-- "Cock Robin lies beside this pump, A coal-box hit him such a thump, And this is all we've got to tell, We'll lick the swine that fired the shell." Bubb looked at the epitaph. "Mind the one over Sergeant Slade at Maroc?" he remarked. "'Ere lies the remains of Sergeant Slade, As was slow at frowin' a 'and grenade." "Not as good as the one at the Cabaret Rouge up at Souchez," said Flanagan, and quoted:-- "This marks the fallen dug-out Where seven heroes fell, Strafed in a bomb-proof shelter By a high velocity shell." "Well, we'll go into the café and have a drink," said Bowdy. "Bubb won't refuse to go in, I know. He wants to see Emily." "It's yourself as wants to see the bird," said Spudhole. "I don't mind sayin' that I kind o' like 'er. She's not bad lookin', almost as nice as Fifi. Mind Fifi, Bowdy?" "Poor old Fifi," said Bowdy. "Fitz was fond of her. I remember one night seeing him kissing her over the window." "Git out." "True," said Bowdy. "That was when we were at Y---- Farm, and I was lying in the straw up in the barn. Snogger and Fitz and Spud and myself came in from the café and all went to bed, except my bold Fitz. He sat up and I watched him. After a while he thought everyone was sleeping and up he gets and goes downstairs. I waited for ten minutes, but he didn't come back, so out I goes and down to see what he was up to. And what would it be but Fitz at the back of the farmhouse speaking to Fifi and kissing her. Well, it wasn't my business to spy on him, so back I comes to my roost and I was asleep before he came back." "I always knew that 'e was a devil," said Bubb. "Pity that 'e went west.... 'Ere, can yer smell the roses." They came to the door of the café and entered. Emilie was inside sitting at a table writing a letter. She smiled at the soldiers and went on with her work. Bubb lit a cigarette, sat on a chair and mumbled a song. "Woola woo donna maw, Siv woo play, Pan ay burr Ay cawfee ah lay." The girl raised her head and laughed, disclosing her pearly white teeth and red lips. Emilie was a well-made girl with dark hair, white brow, thick, strongly arched eyebrows, a charming chin and a full throat. She was of medium height, full of vitality and fun, a coquette every inch of her. Bubb was in love with her, just as he had been in love with dozens of other French girls. A billet and a bird, and no man out of the trench area could be happier than Bubb.