"Wy, he got relieved."

"Where is he now?"

"Hover in the dugout."

I learned that the hero of Mons had regaled them with accounts of his
feats of valor in the trenches, very similar to the tales he had
recounted to us at Salisbury Plain of his achievements in the Great
Retreat, and the cook had given him a meal befitting a hero of his
caliber, which Scotty had devoured with the relish and avidity of four
heroes, while the others had shown him the due and necessary deference
becoming a man of action.

For the benefit of the cook I informed him that Scotty was a damned
liar; that it was I who had been with him; that he ran like a
white-livered cur under fire from his cookhouse and didn't stop until he
had reached the wagon lines; that he was there without being relieved
and that he would shortly have another tale to tell.

I hastened to the dugout he had indicated as Scotty's retreat and found
him in the innermost corner, pretending to be asleep; he didn't answer
until I called him three or four times.

"Scotty, the O.C. wants to know why you left the cookhouse without guard
permitting some Algerians to eat up his bacon and stuff, and, further,
why you ran away under fire. You are in for hell as sure as there is
heather in your hair." His countenance took on a greenish hue and he
mumbled something about being shell-shocked and refused to come. I