"May his temples wear horns and all his toes corns,
May he always be fed on lobcourse and fish-oil,
May he ne'er go to bed till the moment he's dead,
May his cow never milk, may his kettle never boil."
"That's the supreme curse, I think," Fitzgerald remarked, smiling lazily. "'May his kettle never boil'! Think of that—in Ireland, where the teapot's as greedy as the grave."
"Is that the end of the song?" a soldier asked from the corner.
"Only the first three verses," Fitzgerald replied. "There are forty verses in the song, but I forget the rest. My memory!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. "Good God! I forget everything, my memory is my curse.... Who has got a cigarette to spare?"
At that moment an orderly came to the door and shouted out: "D Company runner."
"I'm D Company runner," Fitzgerald remarked.
"Report to headquarters immediately," said the orderly. "Also Rifleman Flanagan to report. Two men must take the message."
"I'm there," said Fitzgerald, turning to Flanagan and asking: "Can I have another cigarette before we go?"
He got another cigarette, placed it in his cap and accompanied by Flanagan went out into the open and across to headquarters dug-out. The adjutant was inside sitting at a table, a cup of tea and a box of cigarettes in front of him. He knew Fitzgerald very well, having met him in civil life.
"I want you to go to the Ridge as quickly as you know how," said the adjutant, fixing his eyes on the runner. "The young German has regained consciousness and he tells us that the enemy are going to blow up three mines under our front to-morrow morning at six. The men must withdraw to the second trench until further orders. I've tried to 'phone up, but can get no answer to my calls. The wire must be broken. Hand the message over to Captain Thorley or any other officer whom you may encounter. You do the same, Flanagan, and both report back here when you've done this...."