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night while out with the wirers. This was Bill Eaves,
who had been a Classical Scholar at Cambridge and
had won medals there for writing Greek and Latin
epigrams. Now he'd got a nice bullet wound in the
shoulder, with the muscles damaged enough to keep
him in England several months. And two nights ago
Ormand and a Sandhurst boy named Harris had
been hit while on a working party. Ormand's was a
"cushy" shell splinter; but Harris had got his knee
smashed up, and the doctor said he would probably
be out of the war for good. It was funny to think of
young Harris being hit in the first twenty-four hours
of his first tour of trenches.

Anyhow we were due for Divisional Rest, which
would take us to the back area for three weeks, and
the clogging monotony of life in the line would be
cleaned out of our minds. And you never knew—
perhaps the war would end in those three weeks. The
troops were beginning to need a rest badly, for most
of them had been doing tours of trenches ever since
the end of January, and even when we were at Mor-
lancourt there was a working party every second
night, which meant being out from seven o'clock till
after midnight. And Miles, my platoon sergeant,
hadn't been quite his usual self since the raid; but
he'd been in France nearly a year, which was longer
than most men could stick such a life. The chances
are, I thought, that if Sergeant Miles is still here a few
months hence, and I'm not, some fresh young officer
from England will be accusing him of being windy.
Sooner or later I should get windy myself. It was
only a question of time. But could this sort of thing be
measured by ordinary time, I wondered (as I lay on a
bunk wishing to God Barton would stop blowing on
his spectacles, which surely didn't need all <that