Free Pass Guard at Ypres by Ronald; Gurner

twenty-four hours Robbie and Freddy Mann,seated within a caisson, watching two farms going up in flames, pondering the unexplained deficiencies in kuives and mess tins and endeavouring to restore their tunics to some semblance of decency for the G.O.C.’s parade, realised what they were in for, and began to pine for the relative peace of Cambridge Road. There certainly wasn’t much rest for subalterns at Vlamertinghe when Townroe, Toler, the M.O., the Quartermaster and the German shells were round about. They were there for six days, during which Freddy Mann had four inspections—one of a very special order to satisfy a Labour member who looked rather like a Belgian spy that we were winning the war—and spent the remainder of the time inquiring into the whereabouts of razors, socks and mess-tins, examining rifles, taking his platoon to divisional baths, receiving what Toler was pleased to call map instruction, doing his battalion and platoon parades and taking working parties for routine jobs behind the line. But it was a merry enough time, with reasonable weather and flea-bags to sleep in at night, and the Fancies at “Pop” in the evening when he wasn’t booked. With the shelling, too, they were lucky on the whole. They got on to the transport lines once or twice, but that did the Q.M. good, and as far as actual casualties, they only dropped six from “C” Company and none from his platoon. And, after all, if they were to return to the line on Thursday, there was Wednesday ahead; and on Wednesday Toler, with a sudden access of humanity or as a result of Harry’s persuasion, had told Robbie and himself that they could shove off for a day’s lorry jumping and getback when they liked, and—the message was conveyed through Harry—they didn’t want to see their ugly faces till they turned up on parade next morning.
    â€œEight weeks today,” remarked Freddy Mann, as he set his glass upon the table and leaned back in the corner of the little Watou estaminet.
    â€œEight ruddy weeks,” corroborated Derek Robinson. He blew into the bowl of his pipe with even more than his usual slow deliberation. “Eight ruddy weeks. What about another drink?”
    â€œYes. Remember passing here, eight weeks ago. Seems longer. Seems the hell of a time since then. Rather thrilled we were at the idea of going up to Wipers. Not much thrill about it now. Remember that old dame at Watten? She knew all about it. Since May we’ve been there—devil of a time since May. Why don’t they put the 9th in and take us out a bit? Getting fed up with it, the men.”
    â€œDon’t blame ’em. Hullo, who’s this?” as the door swung open and a conspicuously martial figure appeared.
    â€œMorning. Morning all!” The newcomer was obviously of a markedly friendly disposition. “Mind if I join you? Damned hot today. Phew! Cognac, mademoiselle. Sure,”—as if with an afterthought—“I’m not butting in? Kaye of the A.S.C. I am. Quite sure I’m not butting in? Glad to see you, you know. Don’t often see people in this damned place. Get out of it when I can. Rotten job, the A.S.C. Rotten place,Belgium—dull, damned dull—that’s what’s the matter here. Have another with me. Don’t you find it dull?”
    â€œWell.” Robinson refilled his pipe. “We’ve come up from Ypres, you see. In brigade reserve and we got a day off. You wouldn’t call it dull there—no, dull’s not exactly quite the word.”
    â€œYpres. Ah yes, I know Ypres.” Lieutenant Kaye nodded with infinite wisdom. “Know Ypres well. Seen it more than once, matter o’ fact. Seen it from Vlamertinghe, Brielen, places round like that. So you find it a bit on the lively side, up there at Ypres?”
    â€œTends to be, you know.”
    â€œAh well.” Lieutenant Kaye looked with a cheerful and reassuring