A very young subaltern on the box-seat was being entertained by the A.S.C. driver—one of the good old sort. Six officers fresh from home—thirsting for blood—should they not have it? Every shell-hole held a story, and the driver was an artist. “You can take it from me, sir, and I knows. This ’ere place weren’t no blooming picnic three weeks ago. The major, he says to me, ‘Jones,’ he says, ‘the ration limbers have gone off and have forgotten the tea. I looks to you to get the tea to them lads in the trenches. Also, there’s an allowance of pepper been sent out in a parcel by the League of Beauty in Tooting for our gallant defenders in France—put that in too.’
“ ‘Very good, sir.’ I says. ‘They shall have their tea and their pepper, or my name’s not Alf Jones.’
“With that, sir, I harnesses up the old horses and I gallops. Through ’ere I comes, the old horses going like two-year-olds. And then they was shelling it, no blooming error. As I was going through, the cathedral fell down and one of the tiles hit me on the napper. But what did I care? Just as I gets here I meets a party of officers—three
