The English Tommy is quite as devoted to animals as is his
French brother. I remember crossing one bitter February day from
Boulogne to Folkestone. Alongside the boat, on the quay at
Boulogne, were lined up the men who had been granted leave.
Arrayed in their shaggy fur coats they resembled little the smart
British soldier of peace times. It was really wonderful how much
the men managed to conceal under those fur coats, or else the
eye of the officer inspecting them was intentionally not too keen.

Up the gangway trooped the men, and I noticed that two of them
walked slowly and cautiously. The boat safely out of harbour, one
of them produced from his chest a large tabby cat, whilst the other
placed a fine cock on the deck. It was a cock with the true Gallic
spirit, before the cat had time to consider the situation it had
sprung on its back. The cat beat a hasty retreat into the arms of its
protector who replaced it under his coat. Once in safety it stuck out
its head and swore at the cock, which, perched on a coil of rope,
crowed victoriously. Both had been the companions of the men in
the trenches, and they were bringing them home.

A soldier standing near me began to grumble because he had not
been able to bring his pet with him. I enquired why he had left it
behind since the others had brought theirs away with them, and
elicited the information that his pet was "a cow, and therefore
somewhat difficult to transport." He seemed rather hurt that I
should laugh, and assured me it was "a noble animal, brown with
white spots, and had given himself and his comrades two quarts of
milk a day." He looked disdainfully at the cock and cat. "They could
have left them behind and no one would have pinched them,
whereas I know I'll never see 'Sarah' again, she was far too