We were doing some digging at the time, night-work, up forward, in clay so glutinous it would not leave the shovels and had mainly to be clawed out by hand—filthy, back-breaking, heart-rending labour. On calling the roll one dawn I found that The Beachcomber was missing.
"Anybody seen anything of him?" I asked.
"Yessir, I did," a man replied, and spat disgustedly.
"Well," I inquired, "was he hit or anything?"
The man grunted, "No, Sir; I don't think 'e was 'it; I think 'e was fed up. 'Call this war, do they?' says 'e to me. 'I call it blawsted WORK!' I told 'im to get on wiv it an' do 'is whack.
"'E chucks a couple of spoonfuls of muck and then sits down. 'I can feel me damned ol' malaria creepin' over me again, Jim,' says 'e. 'Noticed a Red Cross outfit in the valley; think I'll be totterin' along there,' says 'e. 'So long.' And that was the last the regiment saw of its Beachcomber."
"Have it as you like, Captain Dawnay-Devenish," I said, "but before I go tell me, how did you wangle this job?"
"Any affair of yours?" he sneered.
"No," I admitted; "still I'm interested."