Mufti by H.C. McNeile — Read

The officer lying back in the home-made chair tilted the peak of his / cap over his eyes and let his book slip gently to the ground. A few / moments later, after various unavailing waves of the hand, he pulled / out a handkerchief of striking design and carefully adjusted it over / his face. Then, with his hands dug deep in his pockets to remove even / a square inch of skin from the ubiquitous fly, he prepared to slumber. / And shortly afterwards a gentle rise and fall of the centre bulldog, so / wonderfully portrayed on the bandana, announced that he had succeeded.

To anyone fresh from England who desired to see War the scene would / have been disappointing. There were no signs of troops swinging down a / road, singing blithely, with a cheery smile of confidence on their / faces and demanding to be led back forthwith to battle with the Huns. / There were no guns belching forth: the grim Panoply of War, whatever it / may mean, was conspicuous by its absence. Only a very fat / quartermaster-sergeant lay asleep in the sun and snored, while an / ancient and dissolute old warrior, near by, was engaged in clearing out / a drain as part of his Field Punishment, and had just discovered a dead / dog in it. He was not singing blithely: he had no cheery smile of / confidence on his face: he was just talking -- gently to himself.