I heard we were going back to Paris soon. I couldn’t decide whether to be glad or sorry, for the Lord only knew what’d happen there. I wanted like the devil to see the Captain, but I’d have hated like hell to meet Jay-Jay.
Wished I knew where Leon was. He was either here or on his way over—wherever he was I didn’t want to be. No one town could be large enough for both of us: not in this man’s army.
—11—
Wagoner Getterlow ceased to be a wagoner. The General finally decided that our chauffeur couldn’t stand too much freedom.
Of course, as soon as I knew a change had been decided upon and that a new driver had to be got at once, I suggested Ben.
Naturally, Chilblaines had to be present at the moment to pipe up, “Has he ever done any driving over here?”
“Oh, yes!” I lied glibly. “Driven a lot, but now he’s just out of the infirmary and is with a Casuals company at Le Mans. He knows all about cars.”
“I don’t think he is a fit—” Chilblaines began.
But the General interrupted to say, “If you are sure he will prove satisfactory, Sergeant, make out a request for his transfer and speak to the personnel officer about it at once. We mustn’t be bothered too much with a matter of this kind.”
So I made out a request and spoke to the officer who had charge of that line of stuff—I mean, of personnel and transfers. Private Benjamin Garlotz would burst in any time now.