“Why should there be? Brigade have probably moved by this time.”
“Ah, well, can’t be helped.”
No use telling the chap that it was all useless. He just sat down and lit his pipe. He perceived clearly enough that they were being sacrificed—just left there to hold the Bosche up for a few hours, while the Division went back.
During the day there was sporadic machine gunning. The Bosche was feeling his way for crossing the canal, but had found it far less easy than in the sectors farther north. Tolerably certain that the main attack would come at dawn, Dormer and Kavanagh got what rest they could, though proper sleep was out of the question. Their servants had found a well-upholstered sofa, and a superior brass bedstead, which now adorned the cellar, causing Kavanagh to gibe about damage in billets. Their vigil was lightened by the sounds of song from the stables where such men as they had set apart as reserves were lodged.
“Old soldiers never die,
They only fade away.”
to a well-known hymn tune, made Dormer home-sick, but delighted Kavanagh.
“Listen to that!”
“I can’t help it, unless I send and stop them.”
“Never, man, never stop men who can sing at such a moment. It means philosophy and courage!”