calling him. My batman has learnt, after three years of war, to subdue
feet which were intended by nature to be thunderous. His method of
calling me is the result of careful training. If I am to wake at 7
A.M. he flings himself flat on his face outside my dug-out at 6 A.M.
and wriggles snake-like towards my boots. He extracts these painlessly
from under last night's salvage dump of tin-hats, gas-masks and
deflated underclothes, noses out my jacket, detects my Sam Browne, and
in awful silence bears these to the outer air, where he emits, like a
whale, the breath which he has been holding for the last ten minutes.
And meanwhile I sleep.

At 6.55 A.M. he brings back boots, belt and jacket. This time he
breathes. He walks softly, but he walks. He places the boots down
firmly. He begins to make little noises. He purrs and coughs and
scratches his chin, and very gradually the air of the dug-out begins
to vibrate with life. It is like _Peer Gynt_--the "Morning" thing on
the gramophone, you know; he clinks a toothbrush against a mug, he
pours out water. It is all gradual, _crescendo_; and meanwhile I am
awakening. At 7 A.M., not being a perfect artist, he generally has to
drop something; but by that time I am only pretending to be asleep,
and I growl at him, ask him why he didn't call me an hour ago,
and then fall asleep again. I get up at eight o'clock and dress in
silence. If my batman speaks to me I cut myself, throw the razor at
him, and completely break down. In short, as I say, I am the normal
man.

With David it is otherwise. David is a big strong man. He blew into my
dug-out late one night and occupied the other bed--an affair of rude
beams and hard wire-netting. He spread himself there in sleep, and
silence fell. At dawn next morning an awful sound hurled me out of