There is a tame balloon tied by a string
to the back garden, an ammunition column on either flank and an
infantry battalion camped in front. Aeroplanes buzz overhead in flocks
and there is a regular tank service past the door. One way and another
our present location fairly teems with life; Albert Edward says it
reminds him of London. To heighten the similarity we get bombed every
night.
Promptly after Mess the song of the bomb-bird is heard. The
searchlights stab and slash about the sky like tin swords in a stage
duel; presently they pick up the bomb-bird--a glittering flake of
tinsel--and the racket begins. Archibalds pop, machine guns chatter,
rifles crack, and here and there some optimistic sportsman browns the
Milky Way with a revolver. As Sir I. NEWTON'S law of gravity is still
in force and all that goes up must come down again, it is advisable to
wear a parasol on one's walks abroad.
In view of the heavy lead-fall Albert Edward and I decided to have a
dug-out. We dug down six inches and struck water in massed formation.
I poked a finger into the water and licked it. "Tastes odd," said I,
"brackish or salt or something."
"We've uncorked the blooming Atlantic, that's what," said Albert
Edward; "cork it up again quickly or it'll bob up and swamp us." That
done, we looked about for something that would stand digging into.
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