Wounded about half an hour after the final attack on Gaza, I awoke to
consciousness in the M.O.'s dug-out.
"Poor old concert party," he said; "you're the fifth 'Ragamuffin' to
come down."
Eventually I found myself sharing a mule-cart with another wounded man,
but he lay so motionless and quiet that I feared I was about to journey
from the line in a hearse.
The jolting of the cart apparently jerked a little life into him,
for he asked me, "Got a fag, mate?" With a struggle I lighted my one
remaining cigarette.
After a while I asked him, "Where did you catch it, old fellow?"
"Lumme," he replied, "if it ain't old George's voice." Then I
recognised Sam, the comedian of our troupe.
"Got it pretty rotten in the leg," he added.
"Will it put paid to your comedy act, Sammy?" I asked.
"Dunno," he replied with a sigh in his voice--"I'm tryin' to fink 'art
a one-legged step dance."--_G. W. Turner (late 11th London Regt.), 10
Sunny View, Kingsbury, N.W.9._