parapet, at L8, with pretty heavy stuff. I want retaliation, please.

THE JOVIAL VOICE. Very good, sir. (_The voice dies away_.)

A SOUND OVER OUR HEADS (_thirty seconds later_). Whish! Whish! Whish!

SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. Did ye hear that, Jimmy?

FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (_with relish_). Mphm! That'll sorrt them!

THE F.O.O. Is that C Battery?

THE JOVIAL VOICE. Yes. What luck, old son?

THE F.O.O. You have obtained two direct hits on the Boche parapet.
Will you have a cocoanut or a ci--

THE JOVIAL VOICE. A little less lip, my lad! Now tell me all about
your industrious friends in the Coppice, and we will see what we can
do for _them!_

* * * * *

And so on. Apropos of Adjutants and Company Commanders, Private
Wamphray, whose acquaintance we made a few pages back, was ultimately
relieved of his position as a Company Signaller, and returned
ignominiously to duty, for tactless if justifiable interposition in
one of these very dialogues.

It was a dark and cheerless night in mid-winter. Ominous noises in