It was my task to collect from their relatives particulars as to the
whereabouts of the wounded of our neighbourhood, for the purposes of our
local report. It wanted five minutes to twelve, the sacred dinner-hour of
the British artisan, and one name remained upon my list, against which was
a pencilled note, "Reported returning home." Did that mean that he was
disabled? And should I manage to gather the necessary information before
the clock struck?
I knocked at the door, which was opened by a woman wearing a canvas apron
with a very tight string, her head surmounted by hair-curlers and a cloth
cap.
"Yes, thanking you kindly," she replied in answer to my question, "me son
'_as_ been wounded. 'Eard of it from the War Office. This war's a shocking
business."