"I doot we'll get excused a good slice of Purgatory for this, father!"

We came out of the Salient just before Christmas, in the midst of the
mutual unpleasantness arising out of the grand attack upon the British
line which was to have done so much to restore the waning confidence
of the Hun. It was meant to be a big affair--a most majestic victory,
in fact; but our new gas-helmets nullified the gas, and our new shells
paralysed the attack; so the Third Battle of Ypres was not yet. Still,
as I say, there was considerable unpleasantness all round; and we were
escorted upon our homeward way, from Sanctuary Wood to Zillebeke, and
from Zillebeke to Dickebusche, by a swarm of angry and disappointed
shells.

Next day we found ourselves many miles behind the firing-line, once
more in France, with a whole month's holiday in prospect, comfortably
conscious that one could walk round a corner or look over a wall
without preliminary reconnaissance or subsequent extirpation.

As for the holiday itself, unreasonable persons are not lacking to
point out that it is of the busman's variety. It is true that we
are no longer face to face with the foe, but we--or rather, the
authorities--make believe that we are. We wage mimic warfare in full
marching order; we fire rifles and machine-guns upon improvised
ranges; we perform hazardous feats with bombs and a dummy trench. More
galling still, we are back in the region of squad-drill, physical
exercises, and handling of arms--horrors of our childhood which we
thought had been left safely interned at Aldershot.

But the authorities are wise. The regiment is stiff and out of