"Well, anyhow, they resign. I shall send my resignation in to the Army Council to-night. It will appear in 'The Gazette' in due course. '2nd Lieut. Blake resigns his mess presidency owing to the enormous price of sardines per thousand and the amount of lime juice consumed by casual visitors.' I'll tell you what—I'll run the mess on four francs, if you'll bar guests."
"Rot, it's nothing to do with guests. We never have any."
"Never have any!" said Blake indignantly. "Then I shall keep a visitors' book just to show you."
So that was how the D Company Visitors' Book was inaugurated. I had the honour of opening it. I happened to be mending a telephone line in this particular trench one thirsty day, and there was the dug-out, and—well, there was I. I dropped in.
"Hallo," said Blake, "have a drink."
I had a lime juice. Then I had another. And then, very reluctantly, I got up to go. Army Form Book 136 was handed to me.
"The visitors' book," said Blake. "You can just write your name in it, or you can be funny, whichever you like."
"What do they usually do?" I asked.
"Well, you're the first, so you'll set the tone. For God's sake don't be too funny."
It was an alarming responsibility. However, as it happened, I had something which I wanted to say.