The Time: March 1916.
The Scene: The Talus des Zouaves--a narrow valley running behind Vimy
Ridge from Neuville St. Vaast through Souchez. The weather is bleak,
and there is a sticky drizzle--it is towards dusk.
The Man: A native of "somewhere just awf the 'Bricklayers Arms'--you
know where that is, sir." Height, just over 5 feet; complexion, red;
hair, red and not over tidy; appearance, awkward; clothes don't seem
to fit quite. Distinguishing marks--a drooping red moustache almost
concealing a short clay pipe, stuck bowl sideways in the corner of the
mouth. On the face there is a curious--whimsical--wistful, in fact, a
Cockney expression.
The Occasion: The Boche is putting down his evening "strafe"--an
intense and very accurate barrage laid like a curtain on the southern
slope of the valley. Our hero, his hands closed round the stock of
his rifle held between his knees, is squatting unconcernedly on the
wet ground in the open on the northern side of the valley, where only
a shell with a miraculous trajectory could have scored a direct hit,
watching the shells burst almost every second not a great distance
away. The din and pandemonium are almost unbearable. Fragments of H.E.
and shrapnel are dropping very near.
The Remark: Removing his pipe to reveal the flicker of a smile, he
remarked, in his inimitable manner: "_Lor' blimey, guv'nor, wouldn't
this sahnd orl rite on a grammerphone?_"--_Gordon Edwards, M.C.
(Captain, late S.W.B.), "Fairholm," 48 Alexandra Road, Wimbledon,
S.W.19._