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on the dimness of the night. Once the chaplain's
words were obliterated by a prolonged burst of
machine-gun fire; when he had finished, a trench-
mortar "canister" fell a few hundred yards away,
spouting the earth up with a crash. ... A sack was
lowered into a hole in the ground. The sack was
Dick. I knew Death then.

A few days later, when the battalion was back at
Morlancourt, and Kinjack was having a look round
the Transport lines, he remarked that he wasn't sure
that I wasn't rather wasted as Transport Officer. cTd
much rather be with 6C3 Company, sir." Some sort
of anger surged up inside me as I said it. ... He
agreed. No doubt he had intended me to return to
my platoon.


EASTER WAS late in April that year; my first three
tours of trenches occupied me during the last
thirty days of Lent. This essential season in the
Church calendar was not, as far as I remember, re-
marked upon by anyone in my company, although
the name of Christ was often on our lips, and Mans-
field (when a canister made a mess of the trench not
many yards away from him) was even heard to refer
to our Saviour as "murry old Jesus!" These innocuous
blasphemings of the holy name were a peculiar
feature of the War, in which the principles of
Christianity were either obliterated or falsified for
the convenience of all who were engaged in it. Up