THE ROMANCE OF WAR.
We relieved the Royal What-you-call-'ems under depressing circumstances. The front line was getting it in the neck, which is unfair after dark.
As I reached the transport dump a platoon met me led by a Subaltern of no mean dimensions. He was conversing with certain ones, seemingly officer's servants, who were drawing a hand-cart. He grew suddenly excited, then spoke to a Senior Officer, turned, left his platoon and ran back at the double to the fire-trench.
It was three-quarters of an hour before we drew near that unpleasant bourne. In the imitation communication trench, which began a hundred or more yards behind it, we met the Subaltern, hurrying to rejoin his platoon, bearing what seemed to be an enormous despatch-box. He said "Good night" very politely.
By the time we got up the shelling had slackened. The last remaining officer of the Royal What-you-call-'ems stopped to pass the time o' night with us.
I asked him if he knew who the Subaltern might be, and what object of overwhelming importance he had thus returned to retrieve.
"Yes, that was Billy Blank."
"And what was it he was carrying when we met him?"
"A sort of young Saratoga?"
We nodded. Our informant seemed to hesitate a moment.
"Well," he said at last, "I don't see why you shouldn't know, though it's a sort of battalion secret—not that Billy would mind anyone knowing. It's his love-letters."