"No casualties?"
"Yin or twa stuck their heads o'er the parapet when they shouldn't and they copped it," said Glasgow, "but barrin' that 'twas quiet."
In the traverse where I was planted I dropped into Ireland; heaps of it. There was the brogue that could be cut with a knife, and the humour that survived Mons and the Marne, and the kindliness that sprang from the cabins of Corrymeela and the moors of Derrynane.
"Sure," was the answer. "We're everywhere. Ye'll find us in a Gurkha regiment if you scratch the beggars' skins. Ye're not Irish!"
"I am," I answered.
"Then you've lost your brogue on the boat that took ye over," somebody said. "Are ye dry?"
I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I sat down on the banquette. "Is there something to drink?" I queried.
"There's a drop of cold tay, me boy," the man near me replied. "Where's yer mess-tin, Mike?"
A tin was handed to me, and I drank greedily of the cold black tea. The man Mike gave some useful hints on trench work.