"That you, Flossie? No, you can't go with them tail feathers missing to the General's cat. Jellicoe--no, you can't go neither, you've 'ad a 'ard day out with them tanks. Nasty cough you've got, Gaby; I'll give you a drop of 'ot for it presently. You're breathin' very 'eavy, Joffre; been over-eatin' yourself again, I suppose--couldn't fly a yard. Eustace, you're for it." He backed down the ladder, grasping the unfortunate Eustace, stuffed it in a basket and handed it to me. "I hope this is a good bird," said I, "nippy and all that?" The fancier snorted, "Good bird? Nothing can't stop 'im, barrages, smoke, nothing. 'E's deserved the V.C. scores of times over; 'e's the best bird in the army, an' don't you forget it, sir." I promised not to, caught up the basket and fled. I reached the neighbourhood of the line at about 2 a.m. It was snowing hard and the whole front was sugared over like a wedding-cake, every track and landmark obliterated. For some hours I groped about seeking Battalion H.Q., tripping over hidden wire, toboganning down snow-masked craters into icy shell-holes, the inimitable Eustace with me. Finally I fell head-first into a dug-out inhabited by three ancient warriors, who were sitting round a brazier sucking cigarettes. They were Brigade Scouts, they told me, and were going over presently. They were also Good Samaritans, one of them, Fred, giving me his seat by the fire and a mug of scalding cocoa, while his colleagues, Messrs. Alf and Bert, attended to Eustace, who needed all the attention he could get. I caught snatches of their conversation here and there: "Shall us toast 'im over the brazier a bit, Alf?" "Wonder if a drop o' rum would 'earten 'im?" "Tip it into his jaws when 'e yawns, Bert." At length Eustace's circulation was declared restored and the three set about harnessing themselves for the war, encasing their legs in sand-bags, winding endless mufflers round their heads and donning innumerable odd overcoats, so that their final appearance was more that of apple-women than scouts. We then set out for the battle, Bert leading the way towards the barrage which was cracking and banging away in yellow flashes over the Boche lines. Presently we heard a muffled hail ahead. "Wazzermatter, Bert?" Alf shouted. "They've quit--slung their 'ook," came the voice. Fifty yards brought us bumping up against Bert, who was prodding through the débris of a German post with the point of his bayonet. "So the swines have beat it?" said Fred. "Any soovenirs?" "Nah!" said Bert, spitting, "not a blinkin' 'am-sandwich." "Is this really our objective?" I asked. "It is, sir," Bert replied. "Best sit down and keep quiet; the rest of the boys will be along in a jiffy, and they'd bomb their own grandmothers when they're worked up."