in a soldier's grave he sleeps.
I know not where he lies, but one day, if the fates spare me, I will
pay a visit to the resting-place of a true comrade and a staunch
friend.

Outside the village we formed into single file. It was reported that
the enemy shelled the road daily, and only three days before the Royal
Engineers lost thirty-seven men when going up to the trenches on the
same route. In the village all was quiet, the _cafes_ were open, (p. 053)
and old men, women, and boys were about their daily work as usual.
There were very few young men of military age in the place; all were
engaged in the business of war.

A file marched on each side of the road. Mervin was in front of me;
Stoner, a slender youth, tall as a lance and lithe as a poplar,
marched behind, smoking a cigarette and humming a tune. He worked as a
clerk in a large London club whose members were both influential and
wealthy. When he joined the army all his pay was stopped, and up to
the present he has received from his employers six bars of chocolate
and four old magazines. His age is nineteen, and his job is being kept
open for him. He is one of the cheeriest souls alive, a great worker,
and he loves to listen to the stories which now and again I tell to
the section. When at St. Albans he spent six weeks in hospital
suffering from tonsilitis. The doctor advised him to stay at home and
get his discharge; he is still with us, and once, during our heaviest
bombardment, he slept for a whole eight hours in his dug-out. All the
rest of us remained awake, feeling certain that our last hour had
come.

Teak and Kore, two bosom chums, marched on the other side of the (p. 054)
road. Both are children almost; they may be nineteen, but neither look
it; Kore laughs deep down in his throat, and laughs heartiest when his
own jokes amuse the listeners. He is not fashioned in a strong mould,
but is an elegant marcher, and light of limb; he may be a clerk in
business, but as he is naturally secretive we know nothing of his
profession. Kore is also a punster who makes abominable puns; these
amuse nobody except, perhaps, himself. Teak, a good fellow, is known
to us as Bill Sykes. He has a very pale complexion, and has the most
delightful nose in all the world; it is like a little white potato.
Bill is a good-humored Cockney, and is eternally involved in argument.
He carries a Jew's harp and a mouth-organ, and when not fingering one
he is blowing music-hall tune