"Safe enough," protested Derek, "except, of course, when Fritz gets one in with his Archibalds. I'm going in for a soft job after the war."
"What's that?" enquired the infantry officer.
"Flying," replied the R.A.F. officer. "You mark my words, it'll be one of the safest things going. I think I'll sign on as pilot to a fat city alderman. Take him every day from Hyde Park to the Mansion House in a 240-h.p. Scout. Jolly sight healthier than skidding all over the shop in a car."
"Glad you think so," rejoined the subaltern. "Well, here you are. This Corporal will guide you past our reserve trenches. Good luck!"
Without mishap Derek followed the Corporal through the maze of hostile-constructed trenches and across the canal by means of a barrier of sandbags covered with "corduroyed" timber. In a sunken lane were several A.S.C. motor-vehicles which had just brought up the rations.
"Here you are, sir!" exclaimed the Corporal. "This tender's just off."
"Not so fast, mate," protested the driver, who was sweating profusely in his efforts to start the engine. "She's a fair mule. Come and bear a hand."
Even as the obliging Corporal grasped the cranking-handle a shell burst within twenty yards of the stationary motor-vehicle. Derek ducked involuntarily as he felt the blast of the explosion and the screech of the flying fragments. He was untouched, but the luckless Corporal was lying motionless on the ground, while the driver of the tender was swearing softly as he fumbled for his first-aid dressing.
"I've copped it, sir," he reported. "Got it somewhere in the thigh. It's a Blighty for me, I reckon."
He paused, then, producing a knife, began to cut away his clothing with the deftness acquired by experimenting on his comrades.