We relieved the Royal What-you-call-'ems under depressing circumstances.
The front line was getting it in the neck, which is unfair after dark.
As I reached the transport dump a platoon met me led by a Subaltern of
no mean dimensions. He was conversing with certain ones, seemingly
officer's servants, who were drawing a hand-cart. He grew suddenly
excited, then spoke to a Senior Officer, turned, left his platoon and
ran back at the double to the fire-trench.
It was three-quarters of an hour before we drew near that unpleasant
bourne. In the imitation communication trench, which began a hundred or
more yards behind it, we met the Subaltern, hurrying to rejoin his
platoon, bearing what seemed to be an enormous despatch-box. He said
"Good night" very politely.
By the time we got up the shelling had slackened. The last remaining
officer of the Royal What-you-call-'ems stopped to pass the time o'
night with us.
I asked him if he knew who the Subaltern might be, and what object of
overwhelming importance he had thus returned to retrieve.
"Yes, that was Billy Blank."
"And what was it he was carrying when we met him?"
"A sort of young Saratoga?"
We nodded. Our informant seemed to hesitate a moment.
"Well," he said at last, "I don't see why you shouldn't know, though
it's a sort of battalion secret--not that Billy would mind anyone
knowing. It's his love-letters."
* * * * *