‘You’re a Kitchener yourself, Billy.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s you that’s cleaning this hut up. You’ve been a good pal, and we shall be sorry to leave you.’
‘Not I, John! Not I!’
‘Who, then?’
‘The Spirit of God. Good-night, old boy.’
As he walked away a lump came into my throat. I’m a sentimental ass, I know, but still that’s the sort of padre for AFTER THE WAR.