Uninhabited

light, shall, everybody. This is a tale they tell of another Christmas. A Christmas 19 years ago, the Great War was over.

War where his soldiers and officers were at last being allowed to rest, to enjoy such recreation as soldiers might find. Leave areas were established in various parts of France, and at intervals, individuals were sent from the stations of their organizations to these areas there to rest and refresh themselves for a brief period.

The story properly begins on Christmas night, 1918. Nineteen years ago, a leave train was just coming to a halt in the station at Dear French. Merci, Merci, Merci, Merci.

I'm not a living machine, old chap. Australian, and Jack. Compré? We really, really, we really... Was it Australian, this far? Righto. And Merry Christmas, old chap. It's Ryan Well, Miss, you're lost, Kanye. Excuse me, my mum, sir, but I...

She would play... I would like to... ...video-y see... Oh, blasted. I can't talk to the ruddy language. He is not necessary to speak in the last language. You see, since I speak yours after a special.

Oh, thank god. The problem, Master. Tell me you wouldn't mind if I stowed myself in here, would you? I hope. I should be very glad indeed of your company. I am Captain Esmer-Washvordigesquat. Are they 212 for what you meant artillery?

G-P-A. I'm Lieutenant-harris Benantine of the Australian Life Officer. You are welcome, Miss. May I help you with your baggage? I'll have it stowth and have talk. Thank you. Going on, lean, Captain? I am not sure where yet, but say like here.

One never knows where he goes in this world. He's right, bigger. That was Johnny Good on you. They share your compartment, old chef. I am only too glad. It has been right. I've only journey so far.