"That's because they're bored," he replied.
"Bill," I said, "what do you mean by bored?"
"They've holes in them," he answered. "Why d'yer arst me?"
"I wanted to know if you were trying to make a pun," I said. "That's all."
Bill grunted, and a moment's silence ensued.
"Suppose it were made known to you, Bill," I said, "that for the rest of your natural life this was all you could look forward to, dull hours of waiting in the trenches, sleep in sodden dug-outs, eternal gun-firing and innumerable bayonet-charges; what would you do?"
"Wot would I do?" said Bill, coming to a halt in the middle of the street. "This is wot I'd do," he said with decision. "I'd put a round in the breech, lay my 'ead on the muzzle of my 'ipe, and reach down and pull the blurry trigger. Wot would you do?"
"I should become very brave," I replied.
"I see wot yer mean," said Bill. "Ye'd be up to the Victoria Cross caper, and run yer nose into danger every time yer got a chance."
"You may be right," I replied. "No one likes this job, but we all endure it as a means towards an end."