"Oo are yer?" asked Bill, who, like a good many more of us, was smoking a cigarette contrary to orders.
"The Camberwell Gurkhas," came the answer. "Oo are yer?"
"The Chelesa Cherubs," said Bill. "Up workin'?"
"Doin' a bit between the lines," answered one of the working party. "Got bombed out and were sent back."
"Lucky dogs, goin' back for a kip (sleep)."
"'Ad two killed and seven wounded."
"Blimey!"
"Good luck, boys," said the disappearing file as the darkness swallowed up the working party.
The pace was a sharp one. Half a mile back from the firing-line we turned off to the left and took our way by a road running parallel to the trenches. We had put on our waterproof capes, our khaki overcoats had been given up a week before.
The rain dripped down our clothes, our faces and our necks, each successive star-light showed the water trickling down our rifle butts and dripping to the roadway. Stoner slept as he marched, his hand in Kore's. We often move along in this way, it is quite easy, there is lullaby in the monotonous step, and the slumbrous crunching of nailed boots on gravel.