To go into Germany as an anti-British Afrikander was a stoutish adventure, but to lounge about at home talking rot was a very different-sized job.

My stomach rose at the thought of it, and I had pretty well decided to wire to Bullivant and cry off.

There are some things that no one has a right to ask of any white man.
When I got to Isham and found poor old Blaikie I didn't feel happier.
He had been a friend of mine in Rhodesia, and after the German South-West affair was over had come home to a Fusilier battalion, which was in my brigade at Arras.

He had been buried by a big crump just before we got our second objective, and was dug out without a scratch on him, but as daft as a hatter.

I had heard he was mending, and had promised his family to look him up the first chance I got.