"FLY, GENTLE DOVE"
We were told off for a job of work over the bags not long ago. The
Staff sent us some pigeons with their love, and expressed the hope
that we'd drop them a line from time to time and let them know how
the battle was raging, and where. (The Staff live in constant terror
that one day the War will walk completely away from them and some
unruly platoon bomb its way up Unter den Linden without their knowing
a thing about it.)
Next morning we duly pushed off, and in the course of time found
ourselves deep in Bocheland holding a sketchy line of outposts and
waiting for the Hun to do the sporting thing and counter. More time
passed, and as the Hun showed no signs of getting a move on we began
to look about us and take stock.
Personally I felt that a square meal might do something towards
curing a hollow feeling that was gnawing me beneath the belt. As I
was rummaging through my haversack the pigeon-carrier approached and
asked for the book of rules.
Now to the uninitiated, I have no doubt, pigeon-flying sounds the
easiest game in the world. You just take a picture-postcard, mark
the spot you are on with a cross, add a few words, such as, "Hoping
this finds you in the pink, as it leaves me at present--I don't
think," insert it in the faithful fowl's beak, say, "Home, John," and
in a few minutes it is rattling into the General's letter-box. This
is by no means the case. Pigeons are the kittlest of cattle. If you
don't treat them just so they will either chuck up the game on the
spot or hand your note to Hindenburg. To avoid this a book of the
rules is issued to pigeon-carriers, giving instructions as to when
and how the creatures should be fed, watered, exercised, etc.
On this occasion I felt through my pockets for the book of the rules
and drew blank. "What's the matter with the bird, anyhow?" I asked.
"Looks a bit dahn-'earted," said the carrier; "dejected-like, as you
might say."
"Seeing you've been carrying it upside down for the last twenty-four
hours it isn't to be wondered at," said my Troop Sergeant; "blood's
run to its head, that's what."
"Turn it the other way up for a bit and run the blood back again," I
suggested.
"Exercise is what it wants," said my sergeant firmly.
"By all means exercise it, then," said I.