"Now I'm in France," gushed Gwennie, "I want to see _everything_--where the
trenches were and where you fought your terrible battles."

"Delighted to show you," said Slingswivel, bursting with pride at being
taken for a combatant officer. "How about to-morrow?"

"Just lovely," cooed Gwennie. "We're showing at Petiteville in the evening,
but we shan't be starting before lunch."

"That gives us all morning," said the Major enthusiastically. "Miss
Gwennie, Miss Dulcie, Spenlow, we will parade to-morrow at 9.30."

I couldn't understand it. Naturally Gwennie, with her mind constantly set
on Alabama, couldn't be expected to be up in war geography, but the Major
knew jolly well that all the battles within reasonable distance of
Nullepart had been fought out with chits and indents. I put it to him that
it wasn't likely country for war thrills.

"Leave it to me," he said confidently.

So I left it, and when we paraded next morning where do you think the wily
old bird led us? Why, to the old training ground on the edge of the camp,
where the R.E.'s used to lay out beautifully revetted geometrical trenches
as models of what we were supposed to imitate in the front line between
hates. Having been neglected since the Armistice they had caved in a bit
and sagged round the corners till they were a very passable imitation of
the crump-battered thing.

Old Slingswivel so arranged the itinerary that the girls didn't perceive