An Engineer walking along the top, and
well back from the side, counted us as we walked along in line with
him. He had taken charge of our section as a working party, and when
he turned to me in making up his tally I saw that he wore a ribbon (p. 064)
on his breast.
"He has got the Distinguished Conduct Medal," Mervin whispered. "How
did you get it?" he called up to the man.
"Just the luck of war," was the modest answer. "Eleven, twelve,
thirteen, that will be quite sufficient for me. Are you just new out?"
he asked.
"Oh, we've been a few weeks in training here."
We met another Engineer coming out, his face was dripping with blood,
and he had a khaki handkerchief tied round his hand.
"How did it happen?" I asked.
"Oh, a damned pip-squeak (a light shrapnel shell) caught me on the
parapet," he laughed, squeezing into a manhole. "Two of your boys have
copped it bad along there. No, I don't think it was your fellows. Who
are you?"
"The London Irish."
"Oh! 'twasn't you, 'twas the ----," he said, rubbing a miry hand across
the jaw, dripping with blood, "I think the two poor devils are done
in. Oh, this isn't much," he continued, taking out a spare handkerchief
and wiping his face, "'twon't bring me back to England, worse (p. 065)
luck! Are you from Chelsea?"
"Yes."
"What about the chances for the Cup Final?" he asked, and somebody
took up the thread of conversation as I edged on to the spot where the
two men lay.
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