I awoke with a start to a hell-riot of creaking timbers and tiles falling all around me. I got to my feet and crouched against the wall shuddering, almost paralyzed with fear. A tense second dragged by. The tiles ceased to fall and I looked up at the place where the roof had been. But the roof was gone; a shell had struck the centre beam, raised the whole construction as a lid is raised from a teapot, and flung it over into the street.... I rushed out into the trench in undignified haste, glad of my miraculous escape from death, and stumbled across Bill Teake as I fell into the trench.
"Wot's wrong with yer, mate?" he asked.
I drew in a deep breath and was silent for a moment. I was trying to regain my composure.
"Bill," I replied, "this is the feast of St. Michael and All Angels. I've led such an exemplary life that St. Michael and All Angels in Paradise want me to visit them. They caused the sanitary squad to dig my grave to-night, and when I refused to be buried they sent a shell along to strafe me. I escaped. I refuse to be virtuous from now until the end of my days."
"'Ave a drop of rum, Pat," said Bill, uncorking a bottle.
"Thank you, Bill," I said, and drank. I wiped my lips.
"Are we going to be relieved?" I asked.
"In no time," said Bill. "The 22nd London are coming along the trench now. We're going back to Les Brebis."
"Good," I said.
"'Ave another drop of rum," said Bill.