"I don't mind being kept in trenches for several weeks," remarked
their commander to the staff officer who received him when he
reported, "and I can put up with losing my sleeping-bag; but I do
object to having my last box of cigars looted by the blackguards who
took over our billets!"
The staff officer expressed sympathy, and the subject dropped. But
not many days later, while the battalion were still resting, their
commander was roused in the middle of the night from the profound
slumber which only the experience of many nights of anxious vigil can
induce, by the ominous message:--
"An orderly to see you, from General Headquarters, sir!"
The colonel rolled stoically out of bed, and commanded that the
orderly should be brought before him.
The man entered, carrying, not a despatch, but a package, which he
proffered with a salute.
"With the Commander-in-Chief's compliments, sir!" he announced.
The package was a box of cigars!
But that was before the days of "K(1)."
But the night is wearing on. It is half-past one--time to knock off
work. Tired men, returning from ration-drawing or sap-digging, throw
themselves down and fall dead asleep in a moment. Only the sentries,
with their elbows on the parapet, maintain their sleepless watch. From
behind the enemy's lines comes a deep boom--then another. The big guns
are waking up again, and have decided to commence their day's work by
speeding our empty ration-waggons upon their homeward way.
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