“They’ll stop hating in a moment and then we’ll rush it,” said a voice.
James Dawlish looked up, and in that moment the idea was born in his bemused brain. Safety—away from those cursed shells—away from those hissing green flares! What matter the right or wrong—what matter the penalties? Nothing entered into his calculations, saving only the thought of escape. And so with infinite caution he got out of the ditch and approached the driver of the ambulance as if he had been coming down the road.
“Give us a lift, mate, will you?” he asked casually.
“Right ho! hop in. They’ve stopped shelling.” The ambulance was off—the driver unsuspicious. Many isolated men walk about behind the trenches at night, and anyway, it was none of his business.
Thus it came about that No. 1234 Private James Dawlish, of the second battalion of the Loamshires, when on active service, deserted His Majesty’s Forces. ••••• Now Thomas Atkins alone in a strange country, despite all rumours to the contrary, is a somewhat helpless individual. He will
