"Ah, I hadn't thought of that," said the Brigadier as he took his
departure, while I subsided in a fainting condition on to the floor of
the dug-out and asked for brandy.

That night Joshua stopped a piece of shell with his head. We managed
to get him back, but I did not like the look of him and I quite
thought that his number was up. Before we pushed on next day I took
down the portrait of the Brigadier and slipped it into my pocket-book.
I had liked old Joshua well, and I thought I would keep this as a
memento not only of his art but of his ability in spontaneous untruth.

That was, as I have said, in 1916. Much water had flowed between the
banks of the river Somme before, in August, 1918, Joshua and I found
ourselves in that neighbourhood once more.

But we did find ourselves there, for Joshua's head had proved tougher
than we thought, and with an enthusiasm beyond praise he had recently
wangled his return to the old regiment from a cushy Base job, and was
helping to hasten what we hoped and firmly believed was Fritz's final
"strategical retirement."

We had had three strenuous days, and now, while others carried on the
good work, we were resting by chance in that very wood of which I have
already spoken. I wandered forth at eventide over the familiar ground,
which had lain for some time well within the German lines, and came
suddenly upon the entrance to our old dug-out! I went down into it
and found that, apart from a litter of empty ration-tins, it was
unaltered. Then suddenly I bethought me of the caricature which still
lay in my pocket-book. I had never told Joshua that I had kept it. It