Energy books

He had been used to comfort, the little
luxuries of court life. There, on the canal-bank, he refused to sink
into the squalor. He put on pajamas at night before sleeping in his
bunk--silk pajamas--and while waiting for his breakfast smoked his own
brand of gold-tipped cigarettes, until one morning a big shell blew
out the back of his dugout and hurled him under a heap of earth and
timber. He crawled out, cursing loudly with a nice choice of language,
and then lit another gold--tipped cigarette, and called to his servant
for breakfast. His batman was a fine lad, brought up in the old
traditions of service to an officer of the Guards, and he provided
excellent little meals, done to a turn, until something else happened,
and he was buried alive within a few yards of his master. . . Whenever
I went to the canal-bank, and I went there many times (when still and
always hungry high velocities came searching for a chance meal), I
thought of my friend in the Guards, and of other men I knew who had
lived there in the worst days, and some of whom had died there.


Pages:
137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161