‘Bourne,’ said the colour-sergeant, suddenly; ‘Lance-Corporal Johnson is taking some books to the quartermaster in Noeux-les-Mines. You will help him carry them in; and I dare say he will find you useful while he’s there. You will stay there tonight, and come back tomorrow afternoon. Be ready to start at three o’clock. You had better bring your pack here after dinner, and go straight away.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Bourne quietly, with none of the surprise he felt. He didn’t anticipate any particular liveliness in the company of Lance-Corporal Johnson, but he might come upon some unpremeditated pleasure. Putting his things together, and covering up his typewriter, he considered his financial position; and though it was satisfactory, he wondered whether he could get a cheque cashed through the chaplain, or Mr White, the transport-officer, who would probably be seeing the field-cashier shortly, as another pay-day was approaching. He had to look ahead, and either of them would manage a fiver for him. At last the colour-sergeant told him he might go; he took up his mess-tin and haversack, in which he carried a knife and fork, a notebook and pencils, so that he could put his equipment together after he had eaten, and started off with the lance-corporal, but they went to different cookers. Sergeant Tozer was getting his own dinner at the cooker, and he and Abbot looked at him, but Bourne only nodded to them and went over to where Lance-Corporal Jakes was superintending the dishing out of dinners.

‘Was you in the orderly-room when that bloody bomb dropped?’ inquired Corporal Jakes.

‘Yes. I was looking out of the window.’

‘Knock some of the swank out of that bloody regimental you’re so pally with,’ said one of the men angrily, and Bourne looked at him quietly: he was a pretty tough proposition from Lancashire, called Chapman.

‘I expect he will carry out his orders as usual,’ Bourne said, stooping to get his food. ‘What the hell has it got to do with you who my pals are?’

‘Well, that one will get a bit of extra weight if ’e’s not careful.’

‘When you talk silly, you ought to talk under your breath,’ said Bourne, leaning forward a little, so that his face was about a foot away from Chapman’s, ‘Anyone who didn’t know you as well as I do might think you meant it.’

‘We don’t want any of that talk ’ere,’ said Jakes, positive and solemn.

‘Not when there are two poor buggers dead, and five more not much better.’

‘Well, we don’t want any more talk about it. It don’t do no good; an’ you’ve got no call to butt in; nobody said anything to you. If you can’t talk reas’nable you can keep your bloody mouth shut.’

‘What did they think about it in th’ orderly-room?’ Martlow asked him.

‘What does everybody think about it?’ replied Bourne. ‘They think it was damned silly to have a parade there. You can’t think anything else. What they are saying now is that it was not a bomb at all, but a shell, or rather two shells from one of our own anti-aircraft batteries. Were you on aeroplane guard, Martlow?’