"You're lagged, and you can't escape. A 'blighty' is the best luck you
can hope for."
"I don't want to kill Germans," said a fellow with a superior accent.
"I've no personal quarrel against them; and, anyhow, I don't like
butcher's work."
"Christian service, that's what the padre calls it. I wonder if Christ
would have stuck a bayonet into a German stomach--a German with his
hands up. That's what we're asked to do."
"Oh, Christianity is out of business, my child. Why mention it? This
is war, and we're back to the primitive state--B.C. All the same, I
say my little prayers when I'm in a blue funk.
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child."
This last remark was the prize joke of the evening, received with much
hilarity, not too loud, for fear of drawing fire--though really no
Germans could have heard any laughter in Ypres.
Nearby, their officer was spending the night. We called on him, and
found him sitting alone in a dugout furnished by odd bits from the
wrecked houses, with waxen flowers in a glass case on the shelf, and
an old cottage clock which ticked out the night, and a velvet armchair
which had been the pride of a Flemish home.
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