As we walked back from luncheon, the Leader told me a padre would arrive to conduct the service in the Hut that night. Now padres — bar one — are the only ‘duds’ I ever struck in France.This one was harmless. I was conducted to a seat in the front row, beside the Hut Leader, and the men were told they might choose the hymns.They had come in, mud-soaked and fresh from the horses, and were sitting patiently but wearily round. It was perhaps natural, I reflected, that they should choose ‘Days and Moments Quickly Flying’ but I only really understood the reason when we came to the rousing chorus of another hymn ‘And nightly pitch my moving tent - One day’s march nearer Home.’ I think the padre himself must have been surprised at the fervour of that last line. I endured the sermon with the thought of the next hymn. It came - one of the old Glory hymns - ‘Wash me and I shall be Whiter than Snow’ with the ‘Wash me’, as the Army would say, in triplicate, at the beginning. When I stole a look at the mud-stained, unkempt rows - it was not a ‘parade’ service - I could not keep the ghost of a smile from my lips, but I hope it was a kind ghost, for I loved the singers. << less