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     “Stand-to! Stand-to!” roared the inebriated and
corpulentsergeant as he stumbled into the dugout. Dark and
filthy, it was a treacherous place to be drunk.What that man
could smuggle into the trenches was utterly amazing: scotch,
whiskey, brandy,Army-issued rum, and, of course, the best French
wines were seldom in short supply (naturally, allfor a price).
Unfortunately, for once he had decided to follow orders.
Slowly, lazily, themen were torn from comforting dreams of home,
their sweethearts, and clean beds and thrown backinto reality.
They sat up blinking and rubbing their eyes like little boys at
a summer campuntil the sergeant prodded them with a shovel,
after which they began moving in earnest. Sleep andthe few
minutes before it were the only parts of a soldier’s day that he
really owned; therest were property of the Royal Army.  Arvel
watched as the men got up; he liked watchingothers, he had been
a painter before the war. He even fancied him