y army
blankets, used as coverings for the wounded, reached almost to the
ceiling. They were like the stretchers in some cases, and always sticky
to the touch. I could not repress a shudder as I turned away to the much
more welcome sight of tea. A newspaper was spread on the rough table in
my honour and Wheatley was despatched "at the double" to find the only
saucer! (Those who knew the good Wheatley will perhaps fail to imagine
he could attain such a speed--dear Wheatley, with his long spindle legs
and quaint serio-comic face. He was a man of few words and a heart of
gold.)

I look back on that "cockle tea" as one of my happiest memories. It was
so jolly and we were all so gay and full of hope, for things were going
well up the line.

I had never tasted cockles before and thought they were priceless. We
discussed all manner of things during tea and I learnt a lot about their
aspirations for _apres la guerre_. It was singular to think that within
a short month, of that happy party Headley the Corporal alone remained
sound and whole. One was killed by a shell falling on the E.M.O. One was
in hospital crippled for life, and the third was brought in while I was
there and died shortly after from septic pneumonia. Little did we think
what was in store as we drank tea so merrily!

Wheatley insisted on putting a bass bag full of cockles into the lorry
before I left, and when I got to camp I ran to the cook-house thinking
how they would welcome a variation for supper.

"Cockles?" asked Bridget. "Humph, I suppose you know they grow on sewers
and people who eat them die of ptomaine poisoning?" "No," I said, not at
all crestfallen, "do they really, well I've just eaten a whole bag full!
If they give me a military funeral I do hope you'll come," and I
departed, feeling rather hurt, to issue further invitations.

I was drawing petrol at the Stores the next day and as I was signing for
it the man there (my Charlie Chaplin friend) kindly began to crank up.

As he did so I saw Little Willie move gently forward, and ran out to
slip the gear back into "neutral."

"It's a Hun and called 'Little Willie,'" I explained as I did so.

"Crikey, wot a car," he observed, "no wonder you calls it that. Don't
you let him put it acrosst you, Miss."

"He's only four more days to do it in," I thought joyfully, as I rattled
off to the Quay, and yet somehow a premonition of some evil thing about
to happen hung over me, and again I wished I hadn