“Of course, they’ve got hold of your name.”
It succeeded remarkably well. A sort of habitual stiffening was obvious in the Army-worn old face in front of him. Chirnside shifted his legs.
“I can’t tell y’much about it. I don’t know the chap’s name or number, and I expect all the rolls are destroyed. Anyway he might not be on them, for he wasna’ a driver!”
Chirnside was relapsing into his native Scotch, but Dormer didn’t notice. He had got a clue.
“What was he then?”
“He had been servant to young Fairfield, who was killed.”
“You don’t remember Fairfield’s regiment. That might help us?”
“No, I don’t, and it wouldn’t help you, for he came out to Trench Mortars, and not with his own crowd. This servant of his he picked up at Base, or from some employment company.”
“What on earth was he doing with those mules?”
“What could you do with ’em? The driver was killed and the limber smashed to matchwood. The feller had nothing to do, so he did that!”