Salonika, mid-autumn, and torrents of rain. The battalion, changing
over to another front, had trekked all through the night. An hour
before dawn a halt was called to bivouac on the reverse slope of a hill
until the journey could be completed in the darkness of the following
night.
Orderlies from each platoon were collecting blankets from their company
pack mules. Last of them all was a diminutive Cockney, who staggered
off in the darkness with his load perched on his head. Slowly and
laboriously, slipping backwards at almost every step, he stumbled
and slithered up hill in the ankle-deep mud. Presently he paused for
breath, and took advantage of the opportunity to relieve his feelings
in these well-chosen words: "All I can say is, the bloke as christened
this 'ere perishin' place Greece was about blinking well right."--_P.
H. T. (26th Division)._