“You’re a longish way from home, son.”
A soldier came stumbling towards him, saluted.
“Mr. Jameson’s compliments, sir; and he said I was to find where you were sleeping; and to ask if there was anything I should do for you, sir.”
“Where is Mr. Jameson?”
“Having breakfast, sir”—Driver Garton pointed to a wisp of smoke about fifty yards away—“over there, sir. Should I get you some breakfast, sir?”
“Thanks.” Charles Henry, already accustomed to the English Army’s habit of perpetual valeting, followed Garton to the “Mess”—the same broken chalk-trench, roofed with corrugated, into which he had slithered overnight. From round the traverse came smell of a wood-fire, sizzling of bacon. Peter, astride an ammunition box, mug of tea in front of him, looked up; said:
“Morning, Henry. Not been to bed yet?”
“Good morning. No. Somehow I didn’t feel like turning in. You off to the show?”
“Yes. As soon as I’ve had something to eat.”
Garton brought breakfast—bacon on a tin-plate. Peter made pretence of eating; pushed the plate away from him; lit a cigar; began to cough. Looking at this haggard white-faced man in the torn tunic and patched breeches, Henry thought to himself: “Well, if you ever get to those trenches, it’s a miracle.” What he said was: “Aren’t you going to take a gun—revolver, I should say?”