CHAPTER I ALF HIGGINS, RUNNER
"Very well, sergeant-major, I think that's the lot. As far as we know, we'll take over the front line from the 4th Battalion in two days' time. I want you to warn all the men who aren't coming up with us that they are to go to the Transport lines to-morrow."
Captain Richards, commanding "C" Company of the 5th Battalion, Middlesex Fusiliers, rose to his feet, snapped shut his company roll-book and stretched himself. Sergeant-Major French, slipping a similar though less immaculate roll-book into his breast pocket, also rose to his feet (nearly bumping his tin-hatted head against the roof of the dug-out as he did so) and saluted.
"Very good, sir. Good night."
"Good night, French. Oh—one moment. I'd forgotten. I want one extra runner for Company Headquarters. Can you give me an intelligent man?"
The C.S.M. considered.
"There's only 'Iggins, sir," he said, in rather a dubious tone. "You know the man, sir—in Mr. Allen's platoon."
Captain Richards laughed.
"You can't call him intelligent, can you?"
"No, sir. But nearly every man in the company's fixed with a job, sir. 'Iggins ain't very bright, an' 'e won't do no more than you tell 'im. But 'e won't do no less, neither. 'E's a good soldier, and what 'e's told to do, 'e does. I don't think we can spare anybody better, sir."