"Never 'eard of
one," he affirmed stoutly. "Leastways," he said reminiscently, looking
at me out of the corner of his eye, "I do seem to remember something
about a stawf car bein' in 'ere this morning when yours was"--and he
smiled disarmingly. "Look 'ere," he continued, "you forget all about it,
Miss. I 'ates to see yer puffing at the tyres with them old-fashioned
ones, and anyway," with a grin, "that car's in Abbeville now!"

Another little example of similar "commandeering" was when my friend of
the chopped sticks turned up one day with a small Primus stove: "I 'eard
you was askin' for one, and 'ere it is," and with that he put it down
and fled. After the pump episode I was full of suspicions about little
things that "turned up" from nowhere, but for a long time I had no
opportunity of asking him exactly where the gift had come from. One
night, however, one of the doctors from the adjacent hut hospital was up
in camp, and Primus stoves suddenly cropped up in the conversation.
"Most extraordinary thing," said he, "my batman is as honest as the day,
and can't account for the disappearance of my stove at all. No one went
into my hut, he declares, and yet the stove is gone, and not so much as
a sign of it. One thing is I'd know it if I saw it again." I started
guiltily at this, and got rather pink--"Look here," I said, "come into
my hut a moment." He did so. "By Jove! that's my stove right enough," he
cried, "I know the scratches on it. How on earth did you get it?" "That
I can't tell you," I replied, "but you can have it back" (graciously),
"and look here, it wasn't _your_ batman, so rest easy." He was too wise
to ask unnecessary questions (one didn't in France), and only too
thankful to get his Primus, which he joyfully carried back in state. It
was a pity about it, because they were impossible to get at that time,
and our huts had already been raided for electric kettles.

Gothas came frequently to visit us at night and terrible scenes took
place, during which we were ordered out amid the dropping bombs to carry
the injured to hospital, but more often than not to collect the dead, or
what was left of them.

One morning I was in great distress, for I lost my purse through the
lining of my wolf-coat. It was not the loss of the purse that worried
me, but the fact that I always kept the little medal of the Virgin and
Child in there, given me by the old Scotch nun in Paris "for
protection." "Eva," I called, "I've lost m