“He wouldn’t,” put in Dormer, without avail.
“Something like this:
“‘’Z day is fast approaching, boys,
In gas-drill we want coaching, boys,
Our iron ration
Will soon be in fashion.’
What rhymes to coaching?”
“How should I know?”
“Joking apart, Dormer!” (As if Dormer had been joking.) “Do you catch the impulse of the slogan? Of course, iron rations and gas helmets make a much more efficient soldier than drums and bayonets and rum, but the zest is all gone!”
Dormer did not reply; a belated party of engineers of some special service were passing up the road, and from where he lay in the dug-out he could see khaki-covered bodies upon dusty legs, but no heads, the beam of the entrance was too low. Suddenly he said: