His most permanent affair since he came to France is with an estaminet-keeper’s daughter at Bruay. Out of the sale of intoxicants to British Tommies she has collected as her percentage a dot of fifty thousand francs—an immense sum to her. With this, when the war has been won and they are married, she proposes to buy a small hotel. Tubby is non-committal when she mentions marriage. I don’t know how serious his intentions are, and I don’t believe he knows himself. He gives her no definite answers, but writes her scores of letters. He gambles heavily and always loses; but whatever his losses, he’s invariably cheery and willing to lend money. One has to take his companions as he finds them at the Front; it’s the kindness of Tubby’s heart that recommends him. Gus Edwine is of an entirely different stamp. He’s conscientious, unmerry, and solid. He never plays cards, is poor company, but knows his work. He has a girl who’s a nursing-sister at a Casualty Clearing Station. He takes his love with sad seriousness, and beats his way to her by stealing lifts on Army lorries whenever we’re within thirty miles of her hospital. I have my suspicions that that’s where he’s gone at present. He never tells. In a stiff fight he’s a man to be relied on, and commands everyone’s respect on account of his high morals and cool courage. Sam Bradley is the only married officer in our battery. I don’t think he can have been married long, for he smiles all the while quietly to himself as though he had a happy secret. Wherever we are, in a muddy dug-out or back at rest, the first piece of his possessions to be unpacked is a leather-framed portrait of a kind-looking girl. Much of his leisure is spent in writing letters, and most of his mail is in a round decided handwriting which we take to be hers. Steve Hoadley is new to the war. He has never been in any important action and has yet to prove himself. He has a manner, which irritates the Major, of “knowing it all,” and is frequently in trouble. The men rather resent taking orders from him, since many of them have seen three years of active service. On the whole he does not have a happy lot. None of us have at first. He would get on all right if he wasn’t so positive. I think he’s made up his mind to seize this offensive to show his worth. Here’s good luck to him in his effort. Dan Turpin, the Quartermaster—good old Dan with his large heart and immense sympathy for everybody—has just been to see me. He looked troubled as he halted in front of me, rubbing the wart on his nose thoughtfully. “What is it, Quarter?” I asked. “Anything the matter with the transport? If it’s a long story, you’d better take a pew while you tell me.” “It’s nothing to do with the transport, sir,” he said, and remained standing. “It’s to do with what Suzette’s doing over there.” “What is she doing?” I glanced lazily over the sunlit distance in her direction. “She’s mending something, isn’t she?”