Oh, they have a
pretty good time, as you'll see, in a rest billet."
I had to take his word for it. We went bowling along at a good speed,
but pretty soon we encountered a detachment of Somerset men. They
halted when they spied our caravan, and so did we. As usual they
recognized us.
"You'm Harry Lauder!" said one of them, in the broad accent of his
country. "Us has seen 'ee often!"
Johnson was out already, and he and the drivers were unlimbering the
wee piano. It didn't take so long, now that we were getting used to
the task, to make ready for a roadside concert. While I waited I
talked to the men. They were on their way to Ypres. Tommy can't get
the name right, and long ago ceased trying to do so. The French and
Belgians call it "Eepre"--that's as near as I can give it to you in
print, at least. But Tommy, as all the world must know by now, calls
it Wipers, and that is another name that will live as long as British
history is told.
The Somerset men squatted in the road while I sang my songs for them,
and gave me their most rapt attention. It was hugely gratifying and
flattering, the silence that always descended upon an audience of
soldiers when I sang. There were never any interruptions. But at the
end of a song, and during the chorus, which they always wanted to
sing with me, as I wanted them to do, too, they made up for their
silence.
Soon the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.
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