“The Loamshires?” said the Corporal. “Second battalion? But they’re in the trenches, for my brother’s in that there battalion.” The Military Policeman looked at him mercilessly. “What are you doing ’ere, my lad?”
And this time James Dawlish was silent: there was nothing to say. To an officer he’d have lied, uselessly, perhaps, but lied on principle: to a corporal he knew the futility. Two minutes later the door closed behind them, and they passed down the street.
Thus it came about that No. 1234, Private James Dawlish, of the second battalion of the Loamshires, was apprehended by the Military Police, and placed in the guard-room of the village with the unpronounceable name, to await the investigation of his case by the A.P.M. or assistant provost-marshal of the district. ····· And now the inevitable end must be written. There is not much to tell; the whole thing was plain. The A.P.M. investigated the case, and it stood revealed in its hideous bareness. There was not a single redeeming feature. It was no case of a man’s nerve temporarily
