PRELUDE
“Tub, I says. Whenever troops is moving’, ’e’s always abaht—jus’ drops dahn hinformal-like, out o’ nowhere”
“And cawn’t they catch ’im?”
“Catch ’im—? Bly me—not they! A thousand ’orse-power, they say ’e ’as—flies circles round hour hair squad like they was a lot o’ bloomink captivatin’ balloons.”
“But the ’igh-hangles?”
“Moves too fast—’ere an’ gone agayn, afore you can fill yer cutty. They do say ’as ’ow when Yaller-belly comes, there’s sure to be big doin’s along the front.”
“Aye,” said Bill. “When we was dahn at Copenhagen”
“Compayn, gran’pop”
“Aw! Wot’s the hodds? Dahn at Copenhagen, ’e flew abaht same as ’e’s doin’ now.”
Bill paused.
“And what happened?”
“You’ll ’ave to arsk Sir John abaht that, me son,” finished the other dryly.
“We was drillin’ rear-guard actions, wasn’t we, Bill?”
“Aye. We was drilled, right, left, an’ a bit in the middle.” Bill rose and spat down the wind. “Tyke it from me,” he finished, with a glance aloft through the mist, “there’ll be somethin’ happen between ’ere an’ Wipers afore the week is hout”
“Aye—the ’earse, Bill.”
“Wot ’earse?” asked the newcomer again.
“The larst time ’e kyme—down Wipers-way. There was a lull in the firin’ an’ ’tween the lines o’ trenches where the dead Dutchies was, comes a ’earse—a real
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