October brought an extension of my sick-leave and some mornings with the hounds. By the time I received another letter from Dottrell, Delville Wood had more or less buried its dead, in my mind if not altogether in reality. The old Quartermaster let off steam in a good grumble from which I quote a specimen.
“Well, we have been out at rest about 10 kilos from the place we were at last Xmas. We expected to be there three weeks but after 8 days have had sudden orders to move to the old old spot with a Why . Kinjack left us to take command of a Brigade; a great loss to the Batt. They all come and go; stay in the Batt. long enough to get something out of it, and then disappear and will hardly give a thought to the men and officers who were the means of getting them higher rank. It’s a selfish world, my friend. All successive C.O. s beg me to stay with the old Battalion they love so well. I do. So do they, till they get a better job. They neither know nor care what happens to me (who at their special request have stuck to ‘the dear old Corps’) when I leave the Service on a pension of 30 s. a week.”
I am afraid I wasn’t worrying overmuch about “the dear old Corps” myself, while out with the Ringwell Hounds on Colonel Hesmon’s horses. In spite of the War, hunting was being carried on comfortably, though few people came out. “The game was being kept alive for the sake of the boys at the Front,” who certainly enjoyed the idea (if they happened to be keen fox-hunters and were still alive to appreciate the effort made on their behalf). As for me, I was armed with my uniform and the protective colouring of my Military Cross, and no one could do enough for me. I stayed as long as I liked with Moffat, the genial man