“Oh, our artillery will pound the German trenches for a week or two, and then we shall go over the parapet and drive them back for miles,” said Angus simply.

“And what then, sirr?”

“What then?  We shall go on pushing them until another Division relieves us.”

Bogle nodded comprehendingly.  He now had firmly fixed in his mind the essential details of the projected great offensive of 1916.  He was not interested to go further in the matter.  And it is this very faculty—­philosophic trust, coupled with absolute lack of imagination—­which makes the British soldier the most invincible person in the world.  The Frenchman is inspired to glorious deeds by his great spirit and passionate love of his own sacred soil; the German fights as he thinks, like a machine.  But the British Tommy wins through owing to his entire indifference to the pros and cons of the tactical situation.  He settles down to war like any other trade, and, as in time of peace, he is chiefly concerned with his holidays and his creature comforts.  A battle is a mere incident between one set of billets and another.  Consequently he does not allow the grim realities of war to obsess his mind when off duty.  One might almost ascribe his success as a soldier to the fact that his domestic instincts are stronger than his military instincts.

Put the average Tommy into a trench under fire how does he comport himself?  Does he begin by striking an attitude and hurling defiance at the foe?  No, he begins by inquiring, in no uncertain voice, where his ——­ dinner is?  He then examines his new quarters.  Before him stands a parapet, buttressed mayhap with hurdles or balks of timber, the whole being designed to preserve his life from hostile projectiles.  How does he treat this bulwark?  Unless closely watched, he will begin to chop it up for firewood.  His next proceeding is to construct for himself a place of shelter.  This sounds a sensible proceeding, but here again it is a case of “safety second.”  A British Tommy regards himself as completely protected from the assaults of his enemies if he can lay a sheet of corrugated-iron roofing across his bit of trench and sit underneath it.  At any rate it keeps the rain off, and that is all that his instincts demand of him.  An ounce of comfort is worth a pound of security.

He looks about him.  The parapet here requires fresh sandbags; there the trench needs pumping out.  Does he fill sandbags, or pump, of his own volition?  Not at all.  Unless remorselessly supervised, he will devote the rest of the morning to inventing and chalking up a title for his new dug-out—­“Jock’s Lodge,” or “Burns’ Cottage,” or “Cyclists’ Rest”—­supplemented by a cautionary notice, such as—­No Admittance.  This Means You.  Thereafter, with shells whistling over his head, he will decorate the parapet in his immediate vicinity with picture postcards and cigarette photographs.  Then he leans back with a happy sigh.  His work is done.  His home from home is furnished.  He is now at leisure to think about “they Gairmans” again.  That may sound like an exaggeration; but “Comfort First” is the motto of that lovable but imprudent grasshopper, Thomas Atkins, all the time.