dear babe!"

In the course of time the Antrims went into the Push, but on this
occasion they refused to take the Padre with them, explaining that
Pushes were noisy affairs with messy accidents happening in even the
best regulated battalions.

The Padre was up at midnight to see them go, his spectacles misty. They
went over the bags at dawn, reached their objective in twenty minutes
and scratched themselves in. The Padre rejoined them ten minutes later,
very badly winded, but bringing a case of Woodbines along with him.

My friend Patrick grabbed him by the leg and dragged him into a
shell-hole. Nothing but an inherent respect for his cloth restrained
Patrick from giving the Dicky Bird the spanking of his life. At 8 A.M.
the Hun countered heavily and hove the Antrims out. Patrick retreated in
good order, leading the Padre by an ear. The Antrims sat down, licked
their cuts, puffed some of the Woodbines, then went back and pitchforked
the Bosch in his tender spots. The Bosch collected fresh help and bobbed
up again. Business continued brisk all day, and when night fell the
Antrims were left masters of the position.

At 1 A.M. they were relieved by the Rutland Rifles, and a dog weary
battered remnant of the battalion crawled back to camp in a sunken road
a mile in the rear. One or two found bivouacs left by the Rutlands, but
the majority dropped where they halted. My friend Patrick found a
bivouac, wormed into it and went to sleep. The next thing he remembers
was the roof of his abode caving in with the weight of two men
struggling violently. Patrick extricated himself somehow and rolled out
into the grey dawn to find the sunken road filled with grey figures, in