“Hello, Bill,” said one of his mates.  “Back again, are you?  How’s things in Blighty?” “Oh, all right,” said Bill.

Then he looked around.  He pricked his ears as a shell whined above him.  And he took out his pipe and stuffed it full of tobacco, and lighted it, and sat back.  He sighed in the deepest content as the smoke began to curl upward.

“Bli’me, Bill—­I’d say, to look at you, you was glad to be back here!” said his mate, astonished.

“Well, I ain’t so sorry, and that’s a fact,” said Bill.  “I tell you how it is, Alf.  Back there in Blighty they don’t talk about nothing but this bloody war.  I’m fair fed up with it, that I am!  I’m glad to be back here, where I don’t have to ‘ear about the war every bleedin’ minute!”

That story sounds far fetched to you, perhaps, but it isn’t.  War talk is shop talk to the men who are fighting it and winning it, and it is perfectly true and perfectly reasonable, too, that they like to get away from it when they can, just as any man likes to get away from the thought of his business or his work when he isn’t at the office or the factory or the shop.

Captain Godfrey explained to me, as we went into the mess hall for lunch, that the dugouts were really pretty safe.  Of course there were dangers—­where are there not along that strip of land that runs from the North Sea to Switzerland in France and Belgium?

“A direct hit from a big enough shell would bury us all,” he said.  “But that’s not likely—­the chances are all against it.  And, even then, we’d have a chance.  I’ve seen men dug out alive from a hole like this after a shell from one of their biggest howitzers had landed square upon it.”

But I had no anxiety to form part of an experiment to prove the truth or the falsity of that suggestion!  I was glad to know that the chances of a shell’s coming along were pretty slim.

Conditions were primitive at that mess.  The refinements of life were lacking, to be sure—­but who cared?  Certainly the hungry members of the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour did not!  We ate from a rough deal table, sitting on rude benches that had a decidedly home-made look.  But—­we had music with our meals, just like the folks in London at the Savoy or in New York at Sherry’s!  It was the incessant thunder of the guns that served as the musical accompaniment of our lunch, and I was already growing to love that music.  I could begin, now, to distinguish degrees of sound and modulations of all sorts in the mighty diapason of the cannon.  It was as if a conductor were leading an orchestra, and as if it responded instantly to every suggestion of his baton.

There was not much variety to the food, but there was plenty of it, and it was good.  There was bully beef, of course; that is the real staff of life for the British army.  And there were potatoes, in plentiful supply, and bread and butter, and tea—­there is always tea where Tommy or his officers are about!  There was a lack of table ware; a dainty soul might not have liked the thought of spreading his butter on his bread with his thumb, as we had to do.  But I was too hungry to be fastidious, myself.