Accordingly, we sat down on what had once been a rather neat
piece of sandbag work, something in the nature of what an Irishman might
have called a "built-up dug-out." Though the roof was off, I was glad to
have a feeling of security in the small of my back. It rested against a
double thickness of sandbags. While waiting here I was consoled by my
companion by a story of what an artillery general had said to him under
similar circumstances, i.e. that when one saw the shells not bursting
near enough to do any harm, one was perfectly safe. The only trouble, he
went on, was that "some infernal idiot in the German artillery positions
might go and monkey with the sights." "In that case, there might be a
nasty accident." Happily no interfering idiot in this case monkeyed with
the sights, and very soon the battery which was attending to our part of
the country "ceased fire," and it was soon pronounced safe for us to
resume our walk. Altogether I was much impressed with R.'s complete
indifference. Nothing could have been more reassuring for civilian
nerves. When we emerged on the piece of road where we ought to have
found our car and chauffeur, we were immediately plunged back from the
solemnities of war into the normal picnic situation.
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