stopped for the
customary ten-minutes-in-the-hour rest. Over yonder in a field
there was a camp of some kind,--probably field artillery. There was
dim light of a fire and the low murmur of voices. And then a fellow
began to sing in a nice tenor:

Bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the wild coyotes howl o'er me.
Bury me down in the little churchyard
In a grave just six by three.

The last time I had heard that song was in New Orleans, and it was
sung by a wild Texan. So I yelled, "Hello there, Texas."

He answered, "Hello, Yank. Where from?"

I answered, "Boston."

"Give my regards to Tremont Street and go to hell," says he. A gale
of laughter came out of the night. Just then we had the order to
fall in, and away we went. I'd like to know sometime who that chap
was.

After knocking about all over the north of France seemingly, we
brought up at Canchy of a Sunday afternoon. Here the whole brigade,
four battalions, had church parade, and after that the band played
ragtime and the officers had a gabfest and compared medals, on top
of which we were soaked with two hours' steady drill. We were at
Canchy ten days, and they gave it to us good and plenty. We would
drill all day and after dark it would be night 'ops. Finally so
many men were going to the doctor worn out that he ordered a whole
day and a half of rest.

Mr. Blofeld on Saturday night suggested that, as we were going into
the Somme within a few weeks, the non-coms ought to have a little
blow-out. It would be the last time we would all ever be together.
He furnished us with all the drinkables we could get away with,
including some very choice Johnny Walker. There was a lot of
canned stuff, mostly sardines. Mr. Blofeld loaned us the officers'
phonograph.

It was a large, wet night. Everybody made a speech or sang a song,
and we didn't go home until morning. It was a farewell party, and
we went the limit. If there is one thing that the Britisher does
better than another, it is getting ready to die. He does it with a
smile,--and he dies with a laugh.

Poor chaps! Nearly all of them are pushing up the daisies somewhere
in France. Those who are not are, with one or two exceptions, out
of the army with broken bodies.

CHAPTER IX

FIRST SIGHT OF THE TANKS

Late in the summer I accumulated a nice little case of trench
fever.

This disease is due to remaining for long periods in the wet and
mud, to racked nerves