nd sat gazing into the
brazier's glow.

The day wore quietly on, and I had forgotten all about Williams and his
gloomy prophecies when a corporal came along to my dug-out. "Williams
has been hit by a bomb, sir," he said, "and is nearly done for."

At the other end of the trench lay Joe Williams, near to death, while
his comrades tied up his wounds. The glumness had gone from his face,
and when he saw me he signed for me to stoop down. "What did I tell you,
sir, about the disaster for England?" he whispered. "Ain't this a
bloomin' disaster?" and he tried to laugh at his little joke, but the
flow of blood choked him, and he died.

Perhaps, though, he was nearer the mark than he imagined, for it is a
rash thing to say that the death of a man who can joke with his dying
breath is not a disaster to England.

* * * * *

It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strike
you that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that we
are returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is not
without its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such a
little, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is so
sudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search of
some sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, the
Crucifix, a cheap little charm--any of these may bring comfort to the
man in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one of
those marked for the sickle of Death.

A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurt
generally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on his
lips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in some
shielding power--though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button--is
taken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone through
those long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear.

The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not a
thing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man it
is symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect and
reverence from others.

XVI

THE TEA SHOP

Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here," he said, "I'm not
satisfied."

"What's the matter now?"

"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get a
properly cooked tea."

"It's six miles," I objected, "and a confounded