'A hot place here.'
'Yes, padre, you can plop one any time here. I keep to the left side as much as possible under the bank.'
'You're wise; and what are you here for?'
'Men of the "Fifty-fifth" are to be directed down this sap to the front line, and men of the "Fifty-fourth" go down that, and by this you can find your way to the Battalion Head Quarters.'
'Eureka! I've found it. Bon soir,' and 'bonne chance, sonny'; my present troubles are over.
Arriving at the Battalion Head Quarters, I find it to be a farm-house, ruined beyond recognition as such. Kindly nature has covered it with a screen of verdure, rendering it almost invisible. The cook is there and his assistant. My kit has not come down to trolley-line yet, but the major, who has been 'in' some days, shows me my dug-out, a mere hole.
Hours after the officers begin to turn up after various adventures. They seem surprised to see me in first. 'Our padre is the limit,' says the colonel. 'Chuck him into the centre of Darkest Africa, and he would strike out for home.' They glare at me with vengeful jealousy, but they have to confess I got supper on the way with the help of the cook.
Hot coffee melts them. It is professional jealousy. I tell them we ought to have a few non-combatants to settle this war. We're good pals after all, and I know they would not care for a padre who got lost; worse still, they wouldn't want one who didn't go in with them at all.
There's nothing like sticking up to these fine young fellows now and again. Mutual admiration, tempered by strong opinions on irrelevant questions. The colonel is jubilant because our battalion is right in now without a casualty. Others, both going in and getting out, have, unfortunately, not been so lucky.
Bed made at last. Fritz is still letting off fireworks.