"Blighty," I thinks. The doctor knows; 'E talks of punctured damn-the-things. It's me for Blighty. Down I goes; I ain't a singer, but I sings. "Oh, 'oo goes 'ome?" I sort of 'ums; "Oh, 'oo's for dear old England's shores?" And by-and-by Southampton comes-- "Blighty!" I says, and roars. I s'pose I thort I done my bit; I s'pose I thort the War would stop; I saw meself a-getting fit With Missis at the little shop; The same like as it used to be, The same old markets, same old crowd, The same old marrers, same old me, But 'er as proud as proud.... * * * * * The regiment is where it was, I'm in the same old ninth platoon; New faces most, and keen becos They thinks the thing is ending soon; I ain't complaining, mind, but still, When later on some newish bloke Stops one and laughs, "A blighty, Bill," I'll wonder, "Where's the joke?" Same old trenches, same old view, Same old rats as blooming tame, Same old dug-outs, nothing new, Same old smell, the very same, Same old bodies out in front, Same old _strafe_ from 2 till 4, Same old scratching, same old 'unt. Same old bloody War. _Ho Lor, it isn't a dream, It's just as it used to be, every bit; Same old whistle and same old bang. And me to stay 'ere till I'm 'it._ TOBY It will save trouble if I say at once that I know nothing about horses. This will be quite apparent to you, of course, before I have finished, but I don't want you to suppose that it is not also quite apparent to me. I have no illusions on the subject; neither, I imagine, has Toby. To me there are only two kinds of horse. Chestnuts, roans, bay rums--I know nothing of all these; I can only describe a horse simply as a nice horse or a nasty horse. Toby is a nice horse. Toby, of course, knows much more about men than I do about horses, and no doubt he describes me professionally to his colleagues as a "flea-bitten fellow standing about eighteen hoofs"; but when he is not being technical I like to think that he sums me up to himself as a nice man. At any rate I am not allowed to wear spurs, and that must weigh with a horse a good deal. I have no real right to Toby. The Signalling Officer's official mount is a bicycle, but a bicycle in this weather--! And there _is_ Toby, and somebody must ride him, and, as I point out to the other subalterns, it would only cause jealousy if one of _them_ rode him, and--" "Why would it create more jealousy than if _you_ do?" asked one of them. "Well," I said, "you're the officer commanding platoon number--" "Fifteen." "Fifteen. Now, why should the officer commanding the fifteenth platoon ride a horse when the officer commanding the nineteenth--" He reminded me that there were only sixteen platoons in a battalion. It's such a long time since I had anything to do with platoons that I forget.