‘I’m not fightin’ for a lot o’ bloody civvies,’ said Madeley, reasonably. ‘I’m fightin’ for myself an’ me own folk. It’s all bloody fine sayin’ let them as made the war fight it. ’twere Germany made the war.’

‘A tell thee,’ said Weeper, positively, ‘there are thousands o’ poor buggers, over there in the German lines, as don’ know, no more’n we do ourselves, what it’s all about.’

‘Then what do the silly fuckers come an’ fight for?’ asked Madeley, indignantly. ‘Why didn’ they stay ’t ’ome? Tha’lt be sayin’ next that the Frenchies sent ’em an invite.’

‘What a say is, that it weren’t none o’ our business. We’d no call to mix ourselves up wi’ other folks’ quarrels,’ replied Weeper.

‘Well, I don’t hold wi’ that,’ said Glazier, judicially. ‘I’m not fightin’ for them bloody slackers an’ conchies at ’ome; but what I say is that the Fritzes ’ad to be stopped. If we ’adn’t come in, an’ they’d got the Frenchies beat, ’twould ’a’ been our turn next.’

‘Too bloody true it would,’ said Madeley. ‘An’ I’d rather come an’ fight Fritz in France than ’ave ’im come over to Blighty an’ start bashin’ our ’ouses about, same as ’e’s done ’ere.’

‘’e’d never ’ave come to England. The Navy ’d ’ave seen to that,’ said Pacey.

‘Don’t you be too bloody sure about the Navy,’ said Corporal Hamley, entering into the discussion at last. ‘The Navy ’as got all it can bloody well do, as things are.’

‘Well, chaps,’ said Glazier, ‘maybe I’m right an’ maybe I’m wrong, but that’s neither here nor there; only I’ve sometimes thought it would be a bloody good thing for us’ns, if the ’un did land a few troops in England. Show ’em what war’s like. Madeley an’ I struck it lucky an’ went ’ome on leaf together, an’ you never seed anything like it. Windy! Like a lot o’ bloody kids they was, an’ talkin’ no more sense; ’pon me word, you’d be surprised at some o’ the questions they’d ask, an’ you couldn’t answer sensible. They’d never believe it, if you did. We jes’ kep’ our mouths shut, and told ’em the war was all right, and we’d got it won, but not yet. ’twas the only way to keep ’em quiet.

‘The boozers in Wes’church was shut most of the day; but Madeley and I would go down to the Greyhound, at seven o’clock, an’ it was always chock-a-block wi’ chaps lappin’ it up as fast as they could, before closin’ time. There’d be some old sweats, and some men back from ’ospital into barracks, but not fit, an’ a few new recruits; but most o’ them were miners, the sort o’ buggers who took our job to dodge gettin’ into khaki. Bloody fine miners they was. Well, one Saturday night we was in there ’avin’ a bit of a booze-up, but peaceable like, when one of them bloody miners came in an’ asked us to ’ave a drink in a loud voice. Well, we was peaceable enough, an’ I dare say we might ’ave ’ad a drink with ’im, but the swine put ’is fist into ’is trousers’ pocket, and pulls out a fistful of Bradburys an’ ’arf-crowns, an’ plunks ’em down on the bar counter. “There,” he says, “there’s me bloody wages for a week, an’ I ain’t done more’n eight hours’ work for it, either. I don’t care if the bloody war lasts for ever,” ’e says. I looks up an’ sees Madeley lookin’ white an’ dangerous. “Was you talkin’ to me?” says Madeley. “Aye,” ’e says. “Well, take that, you fuckin’ bastard!” says Madeley, an’ sloshes ’im one in the clock. Some of ’is friends interfered first, and then some of our friends interfered, an’ in five seconds there was ’ell’s delight in the bloody bar, wi’ the old bitch be’ind the counter goin’ into ‘ysterics, an’ ’ollerin’ for the police.