“And I suppose the barn was hit and he escaped?” I put in, feeling that I had heard this story before.

“You don’t know Private Parks,” said James.  “About two o’clock in the morning a shell fell on the road not ten yards from him.  Bits of it must have made a pattern all round him, but not one hit him, and when he’d picked himself out of the ditch he went back to the billet, knowing all was then safe.

“Then one day when we were in the front line there came up with the mail a parcel for Private Parks.  I was near when he opened it.  When he saw the contents he gave a sigh and a curious resigned expression came over his face.

“‘What’s she sent you?’ I asked.

“‘It’s from my old aunt, Sir,’ he said.  ‘It’s a stocking.’  ‘Only one?’ ‘Yes,’ he said with great solemnity.  ‘The other one’s been pinched?’ I asked.  ’No, Sir.  The parcel’s not been opened.  It simply means that I shall lose a leg to-day,’ he added.  He wasn’t panicked at all.  But, as to reassuring him, I might as well have argued with a tank.

“We’d had a very quiet time, but that evening the Hun put over a pretty stiff bombardment.  We stood to, but we all thought it was only a little extra evening hate, except Private Parks.  He kept saying, ’They’re coming across,’ till we told him not to get the wind up.  But he hadn’t got the wind up.  Only he knew they were coming.

“And they did come.  Just after it was dark they made a biggish raid and got into our front trench a little to our right.  We started bombing inwards, but the slope of the ground was awkward, and they seemed to be having the best of the fun.

“Then Parks jumped up on to the parapet with a pail of bombs and ran along.  He fairly got among them, and by the time he was hit in the right leg they were mostly casualties or prisoners.  I saw him on the stretcher going back.  He was in some pain, but he smiled, and said, ’One stocking will be enough now, Sir.’”

“Very extraordinary,” I began, but James stopped me.

“I haven’t finished,” he said.  “When about three months later I went down to Southmouth Convalescent Camp, almost the first man I saw was Private Parks.  He was still on crutches, but he had two legs.  I greeted him, and then I couldn’t resist saying, ’What about the stocking?’

“‘I’ll tell you, Sir,’ he said.  ’For a week after I was wounded it was a toss up whether they took the leg off or not.  Then a parcel arrived for me.  It was the other stocking.  My aunt had discovered that she had left it out.  That evening the surgeon decided that they need not amputate.  I knew they wouldn’t, of course, as soon as I received the parcel.’”

James had really finished this time, and after a moment’s reflection I said, “I wonder if that’s true.”

“Do you flatter me?” he asked.

“I don’t know about that.  Not with intent,” I said, “though it would really be more to your credit if you’d made it up.”