He opened his eyes and closed them again with a sigh of relief and content. A low light was burning by his bed, the shadowy figure of a woman bent over him, and between the opening and closing of his eyes, his mind flicked back to full fifteen years.
“I’m glad I waked, Nursie,” he said weakly. “I’ve had a drefful dream; the very dreffulest I’ve ever had.”
IX
THE GILDED STAFF
A TALE OF THE OLD CONTEMPTIBLES
Broadly speaking, the average regimental officer and man of the fighting units is firmly convinced beyond all argument that a “Staff job” is an absolutely safe and completely cushy[2] one, that the Staff-wallah always has the best of food and drink, a good roof over him, and a soft bed to lie on, nothing to do except maybe sign his name to a few papers when he feels so inclined, and perhaps in a casual and comfortable chat after a good dinner decide on a tactical move, a strafe of some sort, issue the orders in a sort of brief “Take Hill 999” or “retire by Dead Cow Corner to Two Tree Trench” style, and leave the regiments concerned to carry on. Briefly, the opinion of the firing line might be summed up in a short Credo:
“I believe the Staff is No Good.
“I believe the Staff has the cushiest of cushy jobs.