But Madame understood him, bless her!

“Mais oui, M’sieur le Colonel!” she exclaimed cheerfully—­the rank of Major is not recognised by the French civilian population—­and threw open the door of the sitting-room, with a glance of compassion upon the Major’s mud-splashed companion, whom she failed to recognise.

A bright fire was burning in the open stove.

Immediately above, pinned to the mantelpiece and fluttering in the draught, hung Cockerell’s manifesto upon the subject of non-combatants.  He could recognise his own handwriting across the room.  The Major saw it too.

“Hallo, what’s that hanging up, I wonder?” he exclaimed.  “A memorandum for me, I expect; probably from my old friend ’Dados.’[1] Let us get a little more light.”

[Footnote 1:  D.A.D.O.S.  Deputy Assistant Director of Ordnance Stores.]

He crossed to the window and drew up the blind.  Cockerell moved too.  When the Major turned round, his guest was standing by the stove, his face scarlet through its grime.

“I’m awfully sorry, sir,” said Cockerell, “but that notice—­memorandum—­of yours has dropped into the fire.”

“If it came from Dados,” replied the Major, “thank you very much!”

“I can’t tell you, sir,” added Cockerell humbly, “what a fool I feel.”

But the apology referred to an entirely different matter.

IX

TUNING UP

I

It is just one year to-day since we “came oot.”  A year plays havoc with the “establishment” of a battalion in these days of civilised warfare.  Of the original band of stout-hearted but inexperienced Crusaders who crossed the Channel in the van of The First Hundred Thousand, in May, 1915,—­a regiment close on a thousand strong, with twenty-eight officers,—­barely two hundred remain, and most of these are Headquarters or Transport men.  Of officers there are five—­Colonel Kemp, Major Wagstaffe, Master Cockerell, Bobby Little, and Mr. Waddell, who, by the way, is now Captain Waddell, having succeeded to the command of his old Company.

Of the rest, our old Colonel is in Scotland, essaying ambitious pedestrian and equestrian feats upon his new leg.  Others have been drafted to the command of newer units, for every member of “K(1)” is a Nestor now.  Others are home, in various stages of convalescence.  Others, alas! will never go home again.  But the gaps have all been filled up, and once more we are at full strength, comfortably conscious that whereas a year ago we were fighting to hold a line, and play for time, and find our feet, while the people at home behind us were making good, now we are fighting for one thing and one thing only; and that is, to administer the knock-out blow to Brother Boche.

Our last casualty was Ayling, who left us under somewhat unusual circumstances.