THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



311 



ulars" are beginning to come in. One 

 drags a leg, another trembles constantly, 

 a third has a hacking cough — gassed, you 

 know; but, "once you're in this game, 

 you just naturally got to stay for the 

 finish." Consequently, though for these 

 three the war is over, they are still in 

 uniform. 



The first drives a motor transport, 

 which meets the 'on leave' men at the 

 trains, the second's a batman, and the 

 third is in the army post-office. As their 

 wages are not exactly high, the teas in 

 Blighty help out considerably. 



The coughing one comes to my table 

 and immediately begins a monologue. 

 He gives us all the news of the day, in- 

 terlarded with much home-made poetry. 

 He goes on at such a rate that I have to 

 assure the others that he is perfectly 

 harmless, "it isn't shell-shock at all." 



"tea is so weak it's like kissing 

 sister" 



According to him, the tea is so weak 

 today that to drink it is like kissing your 

 sister. And he wishes to know if we've 

 seen the startling news in all the papers, 

 that Charlie Chaplin is in first line. This 

 announcement falls like a 5.9 and creates 

 a wild storm of abusive contradiction. 

 Above the din I am able to make out : 



"I guess that that would be a little too 

 much. If the Allies want to end this war 

 quick, just let 'em put Charlie's feet in 

 danger. Why, Fritzie could make his 

 own terms and no one 'ud give a tinkers." 

 That's what it means to be a hero of the 

 screen. 



The room is nearly empty now and 

 almost quiet. I've about decided to 

 leave when a gaunt, cadaverous person 

 slouches in. Apologetically he asks if he 

 is too late for tea. Because he looks so 

 wretched, I reply in the negative, just as 

 he notices the signs, "N® tea served after 

 6.45." He smiles gratefully at me, with 

 a smile that changes all his face. We are 

 silent for a few minutes, partly because 

 I'm a little tired, I guess, and partly be- 

 cause I feel a bit timid before this most 

 unusual type of visitor. Suddenly, with- 

 out a word of warning, he informs me: 



"You're right. I am a rough customer. 

 I'm just out of clink" (jail). 



I say, "Ha, ha ! Caught with a camera, 

 eh?" 



"Worse than that," says he. 



So I guess again: "You took all the 

 temper out of your tin hat when you 

 cooked eggs in it." 



But he finds no humor in that ancient 

 joke. When I state positively, "You're 

 not the sort for an S. I. W.," he mur- 

 murs sadly : 



"No ; it takes nerve to go in for a 'self- 

 inflicted wound.' " 



His face is pinched and drawn, though 

 almost triumphant, as he finally admits 

 his offense : "I hit an officer." 



In spite of myself I gasp a little, for 

 this is serious business ; but I say noth- 

 ing, for he has started a very flood of 

 talk. 



THE EIRST VOLUNTEER EOR HIS TOWN 



"I was the first volunteer from my 

 town," he tells me, "because then I 

 thought the war was right. My three 

 brothers came, too. One is blind and two 

 are dead. The littlest one was the pret- 

 tiest boy I ever saw — absolutely the 

 prettiest. I found him right after they 

 'got' him, and he looked as though he'd 

 just come from a party. His face hadn't 

 been hit at all, and not a hair was out of 

 place. I helped to bury him ; then I sent 

 the cable home. I'm forty years old, and 

 all my life I've had men under me. My 

 father owned a big horse ranch, where I 

 learned how to treat men. And when 

 that young, impudent whipper-snapper 

 dared"— 



"Yes, yes," I break in. "I know, 

 but"— 



, "You know," laughs he. "You know 

 nothing. You get up in the morning, in 

 a steam-heated room, and you look out 

 of the window. If it happens to be driz- 

 zling, you say to yourself, 'My, my, to- 

 day I'll get my little boot soles wet.' 

 When you've had to leave a mate to die 

 in the mud, standing up, because you 

 have only sufficient strength to pull your 

 own legs out, then you know something 

 about war and its glories. Oh, but it's 

 cruel, that mud of the Somme ! And that 

 night, when I'd worked in it, slept in it, 

 and swallowed a lot of it in my rations 

 for ten days, that insufferable cad, that 

 unmentionally odious tuppenny ha'penny 

 captain" — 



"Can't you forget it for a little while 

 low? Your tea will be stone cold. Be- 



