“He is a tip-top non-com., and has the D.C.M. and the French Cross; he worked miracles when his officers were killed at Ypres. They offered him a commission, but he wouldn’t take it. The men love him; though he has some funny fads, never touches meat, and sings queer outlandish chants; but he’s the splendid sort of fellow who was born for this war; full of heroic qualities and as hard as a bag of nails. I suppose his regiment was in Rangoon.”
“Not in my time,” replied Shafto. He hesitated for a moment, and then added, “If I were to tell you how I came across that Irish sergeant-major you’d say I was pulling your leg.”
“Oh, go on, then—pull away.”
“When I first met him he was a Burmese priest, with a shorn head, yellow robe, and begging-bowl.”
“Come, I say, Douglas, this is a bit too much!”
“But it’s a fact. He had been a soldier for six or seven years, got a bad stroke in the jungle, was taken in by Burmans, and was for seven years a pongye. When the war broke out he flung off his yellow robe, paid his passage to England, and is here, as you see, in his element.”
“It’s amazing—incredible—but incredible things come off nowadays.”
Shafto nodded.
“If he gets through this, do you suppose he will return to his monastry?”
“Never! It is his fixed intention to go to Ireland; he has some money, and hopes to settle down on his own little farm.”