"Give us a bit of bacon, then, fathead," the third one asks with a certain gentleness.
The fourth man returns, "Crikey, I could do with a smoke. Hasn't anybody got a?"
"Let's clear off, boys," urges the fifth. "We're not going to have any more of it."
"I'll give you a cigarette," says the sixth, "but you'll have to give me a bit of bread."
"We're going home, boys . . . think of it . . . home," the seventh one cries.
"Is your old woman expecting you?" the eighth man asks.
"My God, it's six years since I slept in a proper bed," sighs the ninth.
"What a mug's game it was, lads!" says the tenth man, spitting disgustedly.
"It was that!" the eleventh replies, "but we've done with it now."
"We've done with it," repeats the twelfth man. "We're not such fools. Let's go home, mates!"
"Oh, but I'm glad it's all over," concludes the thirteenth, turning over to lie on the other side.
And such, one can well imagine, was the end of the Greatest War.
