Then they got sentimental--and gloomy.

"Gawd lumme!" says the big fellow who had threatened my beloved
stripes. "Wot a life. Squattin' 'ere in the bloody mud like a
blinkin' frog. Fightin' fer wot? Wot, I arsks yer? Gawd lumme! I'd
give me bloomin' napper to stroll down the Strand agyne wif me
swagger stick an' drop in a private bar an' 'ave me go of 'Aig an'
'Aig."

"Garn," cuts in another Tommy. "Yer blinkin' 'igh wif yer wants,
ayen't ye? An' yer 'Aig an' 'Aig. Drop me down in Great Lime Street
(Liverpool) an' it's me fer the Golden Sheaf, and a pint of bitter,
an' me a 'oldin' 'Arriet's 'and over th' bar. I'm a courtin' 'er
when," etc., etc.

And then a fresh-faced lad chirps up: "T' 'ell wif yer Lonnon an'
yer whuskey. Gimme a jug o' cider on the sunny side of a 'ay rick
in old Surrey. Gimme a happle tart to go wif it. Gawd, I'm fed up
on bully beef."

And so it went. All about pubs and bar-maids and the things they'd
eat and drink, and all of it Blighty.

They were in the midst of a discussion of what part of the body was
most desirable to part with for a permanent Blighty wound when a
young officer pushed aside the burlap and wedged in. He was a
lieutenant and was in command of our platoon. His name was Blofeld.

Blofeld was most democratic. He shook hands with the new men and