"I've got one, my own napper's an 'og's 'ead," said Bill.
"When I get the beer I'll capture a coot, a big bull coot, an' make 'im drunk," he continued. "When 'e's in a fightin' mood I'll put him inside my shirt an' cut 'im amok. There'll be ructions; 'e'll charge the others with fixed bayonets an' rout 'em. Oh! blimey! will they ever stop this damned caper? Nark it. Fritz, nark yer doin's, ye fool."
Bill cowered down as the shell burst, then sat upright again.
"I'm gettin' more afraid of these things every hour," he said, "what is the war about?"
"I don't know," I answered.
"I'm sick of it," Bill muttered.
"Why did you join?"
"To save myself the trouble of telling people why I didn't," he answered with a laugh. "Flat on yer tummy, Rifleman Teake, there's another shell."
About noon the shelling ceased; we breathed freely again and discovered we were very hungry. No food had passed our lips since breakfast the day before. Stoner was afoot, alert and active, he had slept for eight hours in his cubby-hole, and the youngster was now covered with clay and very dirty.
"I'll go back to the cook's waggon at Givenchy and rake up some grub," he said, and off he went.