"Haud yer tongue. Ye're a Chooton. An' ye're cotched. That's flat."
I was bundled into a draughty cattle-shed. The door was slammed. I sneezed. It was a bright prospect. I changed my views on the inefficiency of our Home Defenders. They now appealed to me as violently efficient. A night in a tumble-down cow-house! Desolation! Then I brightened up: the MacNeils' whisky. The cork popped in the silence of the night.
The door opened. A sentry's head was poked round. Disregarding him, I raised the bottle to my chattering teeth. Then the lance-corporal appeared. With a sudden thought I offered him the bottle. A strange look crept across his face. Gingerly he took the bottle. Then there was a comfortable sound. He drew a hand across his mouth.
"That's grrand," he said. "Beg pardon, Sir. It's been ma mistake. Jock, the prisoner is a Scottish officer. Let him gang.... Thank ye, Sir; thank ye for the whisky."
"The Germans ... a whole company being decimated, the only survivors, a captain and seventy men, surrendering."
Pall Mall Gazette.
This indication that the normal strength of a German company is now only 79 is welcome news.
"The air defence of London is now practically under the control of the home forces, of which Lord French is Commander-in-Chief, and Admiral Lord French is Commander-in Chief, and Admiral the gunnery defences of London."—Provincial Paper.
So now we're all right.