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."