into an attack, instead of which at the end of the long night march we found ourselves again on the Ridge. Because it was night when we moved, nobody noticed that Suzette was following. I don’t believe she walked; I suspect that she rode in a G. S. wagon with the connivance of the Captain and the Quartermaster-Sergeant. When we found her at our new wagon-lines in the morning, no one felt like reporting officially on her presence.
Since then she has made herself the mother of our battery; it’s to Suzette that we all go when we’ve lost a button or our clothes need patching. And it’s to Suzette that we go when the letters from our girls aren’t up to scratch. We just sit a little while and look at her; after that we renew our faith in women and feel better.
The men have built her a little bivouac a short distance away from theirs, yet within ear-range if she should need them. Woe betide any blackguard who tries to molest her. It’s happened twice; the men lay cold for the best part of an hour. They were strangers from another unit.
How does she exist on active service? The cook feeds her on the sly from the battery-kitchen. The men share with her the boxes that are sent to them from home. Our first thought on looking through a present of comforts is, “Ah, that will do for Suzette".
For the rest, the Quartermaster supplies her with necessities and blankets. Of late she has taken to wearing a Tommy’s tunic and a khaki shirt.
Suzette has become an institution; the Colonel and General are aware of her; they both wink at her presence. They may well, for she keeps our men straight; there’s been no drunkenness since she came among us. She’ll be the last woman to be seen by many of our chaps; the casualties in our counter-offensive are bound to be heavy.
What I’m wondering is will she be allowed to accompany us if we go into open warfare; we can scarcely have a woman with us then. I’d bet the shirt off my back, however, that the Captain will manage it. He never speaks to her or of her—never seems to notice her; but if you watch him closely, you know that he listens for her laughter and her footstep. He’s a man to whom something shattering has happened—something not done by shells. He was badly wounded last year at Vimy; we none of us
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