I was sitting grimly in my sentry-box guarding a power station and a
sausage factory. The latter is considered to be a likely point of attack
on the part of the Huns. Should it be destroyed, a vital source of food
supply for our army (they would reason) would be cut off.
Incidentally, the sausage factory is much more exciting to guard than
the electric light works. One sees the raw material arriving and being
unloaded. One sees the sausage king swishing up in his richly-appointed
limousine, giving porkly orders to his deferential subordinates, and
then whisking off--no doubt to confer with the War Office.
An old lady with a million wrinkles approached me and seemed desirous of
entering into conversation. We are strictly forbidden to talk with
civilians unless first accosted. After that it is a matter for
individual discretion.
I therefore left it to her to make the first advance. She began: "'Ave
you got to sit there the 'ole of the afternoon, dearie?"