and that night I missed him from my hut.  I advertised in the local rag (he was well known to all the French people as he was about the only pure bred dog they’d ever seen), but to no avail.  I also made visits to the Abattoir, the French slaughter house where strays were taken, but he was not there, and I could only hope he had been taken by some Tommies, in which case I knew he would be well looked after.  I missed him terribly.

Work came in spasms, in accordance with the fighting of course, and when there was no special push on we had tremendous car inspections.  Boss walked round trying to spot empty grease caps and otherwise making herself thoroughly objectionable in the way of gear boxes and universals.  On these occasions “eye-wash” was extensively applied to the brass, the idea being to keep her attention fixed well to the front by the glare.

One day, when all manner of fatigues and other means of torture had been exhausted, Dicky and Freeth discovered they had a simultaneous birthday.  Prospects of wounded arriving seemed nil, and permission was given for a fancy-dress tea party to celebrate the double event.  It must be here understood that whether work came in or not we all had to remain on duty in camp till five every day, in case of the sudden arrival of ambulance trains, etc.  After that hour, two of us were detailed to be on evening duty till nine, while all night duty was similarly taken in turns.  Usually, after hanging about all day till five, a train or barges would be announced, and we were lucky if we got into bed this side of 12.  Hardly what you might call a “six-hour day,” and yet nobody went on strike.

The one in question was fine and cloudless, and birthday wishes in the shape of a Taube raid were expressed by the Boche, who apparently keeps himself informed on all topics.

The fancy dresses (considering what little scope we had and that no one even left camp to buy extras in the town) were many and varied.  “Squig” and de Wend were excellent as bookies, in perfectly good toppers made out of stiff white paper with deep black ribbon bands and “THE OLD FIRM” painted in large type on cards.  Jockeys, squaws, yokels, etc., all appeared mysteriously from nothing.  I was principally draped in my Reckitts blue upholsterings and a brilliant Scherezade kimono, bought in a moment of extravagance in Paris.

The proceedings after tea, when the cooks excelled themselves making an enormous birthday cake, consisted of progressive games of sorts.  You know the kind of thing, trying to pick up ten needles with a pin (or is it two?) and doing a Pelman memory stunt after seeing fifty objects on a tray, and other intellectual pursuits of that description.  Another stunt was putting a name to different liquids which you smelt blindfold.  This was the only class in which I got placed.  I was the only one apparently who knew the difference between whisky and brandy!