[Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected. The original spelling has been retained. 

Page 17: "some with faces turned upwards, " the word "turned" was crossedPage 234: Added a round bracket. (A bullet whistles by on the right of Bill's head. )]

 THE RED HORIZON

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR

 CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END. The Autobiography of a Navvy. Ten Thousand Printed within Ten Days of Publication. 

 THE RAT-PIT. _Third Edition. _

 THE AMATEUR ARMY. The Experiences of a Soldier in the Making. 

 THE GREAT PUSH. 

 THE RED HORIZON

 BY

 PATRICK MACGILL

 WITH A FOREWORD BY VISCOUNT ESHER G. C. B. 

 TORONTO McCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART, LIMITED

 LONDON HERBERT JENKINS, LIMITED 1916

 THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD. , TIPTREE, ESSEX. 

 TO THE LONDON IRISH TO THE SPIRIT OF THOSE WHO FIGHT AND TO THE MEMORY OF THOSE WHO HAVE PASSED AWAY THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

FOREWORD

_To_ PATRICK MACGILL, Rifleman No. 3008, London Irish. 

DEAR PATRICK MACGILL, There is open in France a wonderful exhibition of the work of the manygallant artists who have been serving in the French trenches throughthe long months of the War. 

There is not a young writer, painter, or sculptor of French blood, whois not risking his life for his country. Can we make the same proudboast?

When I recruited you into the London Irish--one of those splendidregiments that London has sent to Sir John French, himself anIrishman--it was with gratitude and pride. 

You had much to give us. The rare experiences of your boyhood, yourtalents, your brilliant hopes for the future. Upon all these theWestern hills and loughs of your native Donegal seemed to have a priorclaim. But you gave them to London and to our London Territorials. Itwas an example and a symbol. 

The London Irish will be proud of their young artist in words, and hewill for ever be proud of the London Irish Regiment, its deeds andvalour, to which he has dedicated such great gifts. May God preserveyou. 

 Yours sincerely, ESHER. 

 _President_ County of London

Callander. Territorial Association. 

 _16th September, 1915. _

 CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

 I. THE PASSING OF THE REGIMENT 13

 II. SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 19

 III. OUR FRENCH BILLETS 30

 IV. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE TRENCHES 43

 V. FIRST BLOOD 49

 VI. IN THE TRENCHES 69

 VII. BLOOD AND IRON--AND DEATH 88

 VIII. TERRORS OF THE NIGHT 110

 IX. THE DUG-OUT BANQUET 116

 X. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE 130

 XI. THE MAN WITH THE ROSARY 138

 XII. THE SHELLING OF THE KEEP 149

 XIII. A NIGHT OF HORROR 175

 XIV. A FIELD OF BATTLE 200

 XV. THE REACTION 209

 XVI. PEACE AND WAR 216

 XVII. EVERYDAY LIFE AT THE FRONT 228

 XVIII. THE COVERING PARTY 249

 XIX. SOUVENIR HUNTERS 264

 XX. THE WOMEN OF FRANCE 279

 XXI. IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT 292

 XXII. ROMANCE 300

THE RED HORIZON (p. 013)

CHAPTER 1

THE PASSING OF THE REGIMENT

 I wish the sea were not so wide That parts me from my love; I wish the things men do below Were known to God above. 

 I wish that I were back again In the glens of Donegal; They'll call me coward if I return, But a hero if I fall. 

 "Is it better to be a living coward, Or thrice a hero dead?" "It's better to go to sleep, my lad, " The Colour Sergeant said. 

Night, a grey troubled sky without moon or stars. The shadows lay onthe surface of the sea, and the waves moaned beneath the keel of thetroopship that was bearing us away on the most momentous journey ofour lives. The hour was about ten. Southampton lay astern; by dawn weshould be in France, and a day nearer the war for which we had trainedso long in the cathedral city of St. Albans. 

I had never realized my mission as a rifleman so acutely before. (p. 014)

"To the war! to the war!" I said under my breath. "Out to France andthe fighting!" The thought raised a certain expectancy in my mind. "Did I think three years ago that I should ever be a soldier?" I askedmyself. "Now that I am, can I kill a man; run a bayonet through hisbody; right through, so that the point, blood red and cruelly keen, comes out at the back? I'll not think of it. "

But the thoughts could not be chased away. The month was March, andthe night was bitterly cold on deck. A sharp penetrating wind sweptacross the sea and sung eerily about the dun-coloured funnel. With myovercoat buttoned well up about my neck and my Balaclava helmet pulleddown over my ears I paced along the deck for quite an hour; then, shivering with cold, I made my way down to the cabin where my mateshad taken up their quarters. The cabin was low-roofed and lit with twoelectric lamps. The corners receded into darkness where the shadowsclustered thickly. The floor was covered with sawdust, packs andhaversacks hung from pegs in the walls; a gun-rack stood in the centreof the apartment; butts down and muzzles in line, the rifles (p. 015)stretched in a straight row from stern to cabin stairs. On the benchesalong the sides the men took their seats, each man under hisequipment, and by right of equipment holding the place for the lengthof the voyage. 

My mates were smoking, and the whole place was dim with tobacco smoke. In the thick haze a man three yards away was invisible. 

"Yes, " said a red-haired sergeant, with a thick blunt nose, and abroken row of tobacco-stained teeth; "we're off for the doin's now. "

"Blurry near time too, " said a Cockney named Spud Higgles. "I thoughtwe weren't goin' out at all. "

"You'll be there soon enough, my boy, " said the sergeant. "It's notall fun, I'm tellin' you, out yonder. I have a brother----"

"The same bruvver?" asked Spud Higgles. 

"What d'ye mean?" inquired the sergeant. 

"Ye're always speakin' about that bruvver of yours, " said Spud. "'E'sonly in Ally Sloper's Cavalry; no man's ever killed in that mob. "

"H'm!" snorted the sergeant. "The A. S. C. Runs twice as much risk as aline regiment. "

"That's why ye didn't join it then, is it?" asked the Cockney. (p. 016)

"Hold yer beastly tongue!" said the sergeant. 

"Well, it's like this, " said Spud----

"Hold your tongue, " snapped the sergeant, and Spud relapsed intosilence. 

After a moment he turned to me where I sat. "It's not only Germansthat I'll look for in the trenches, " he said, "when I have my rifleloaded and get close to that sergeant----"

"You'll put a bullet through him"; I said, "just as you vowed you'd doto me some time ago. You were going to put a bullet through thesergeant-major, the company cook, the sanitary inspector, the armytailor and every single man in the regiment. Are you going to destroythe London Irish root and branch?" I asked. 

"Well, there's some in it as wants a talking to at times, " said Spud. "'Ave yer got a fag to spare?"

Somebody sung a ragtime song, and the cabin took up the chorus. Theboys bound for the fields of war were light-hearted and gay. A journeyfrom the Bank to Charing Cross might be undertaken with a more seriousair: it looked for all the world as if they were merely out on (p. 017)some night frolic, determined to throw the whole mad vitality of youthinto the escapade. 

"What will it be like out there?" I asked myself. The war seemed verynear now. "What will it be like, but above all, how shall I conductmyself in the trenches? Maybe I shall be afraid--cowardly. But no! IfI can't bear the discomforts and terrors which thousands endure dailyI'm not much good. But I'll be all right. Vanity will carry me throughwhere courage fails. It would be such a grand thing to becomeconspicuous by personal daring. Suppose the men were wavering in anattack, and then I rushed out in front and shouted: 'Boys, we've gotto get this job through'--But, I'm a fool. Anyhow I'll lie on thefloor and have a sleep. "

Most of the men were now in a deep slumber. Despite an order againstsmoking, given a quarter of an hour before, a few of my mates had the"fags" lit, and as the lamps had been turned off the cigarettes glowedred through the gloom. The sleepers lay in every conceivable position, some with faces turned upwards, jaws hanging loosely and tonguesstretching over the lower lips; some with knees curled up and (p. 018)heads bent, frozen stiff in the midst of a grotesque movement, somewith hands clasped tightly over their breasts and others with theirfingers bent as if trying to clutch at something beyond their reach. Afew slumbered with their heads on their rifles, more had their headson the sawdust-covered floor, and these sent the sawdust flutteringwhenever they breathed. The atmosphere of the place was close andalmost suffocating. Now and again someone coughed and spluttered as ifhe were going to choke. Perspiration stood out in little beads on thetemples of the sleepers, and they turned round from time to time toraise their Balaclava helmets higher over their eyes. 

And so the night wore on. What did they dream of lying there? Iwondered. Of their journey and the perils that lay before them? Of theglory or the horror of the war? Of their friends whom, perhaps, theywould never see again? It was impossible to tell. 

For myself I tried not to think too clearly of what I might seeto-morrow or the day after. The hour was now past midnight and a newday had come. What did it hold for us all? Nobody knew--I fell asleep. 

CHAPTER II (p. 019)

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE

 When I come back to England, And times of Peace come round, I'll surely have a shilling, And may be have a pound; I'll walk the whole town over, And who shall say me nay, For I'm a British soldier With a British soldier's pay. 

The Rest Camp a city of innumerable bell-tents, stood on the summit ofa hill overlooking the town and the sea beyond. We marched up from thequay in the early morning, followed the winding road paved withtreacherous cobbles that glory in tripping unwary feet, and sweated tothe summit of the hill. Here a new world opened to our eyes: a canvascity, the mushroom growth of our warring times lay before us; tentafter tent, large and small, bell-tent and marquee in accuratealignment. 

It took us two hours to march to our places; we grounded arms at theword of command and sank on our packs wearily happy. True, a few (p. 020)had fallen out; they came in as we rested and awkwardly fell intoposition. They were men who had been sea-sick the night before. Wewere too excited to rest for long; like dogs in a new locality we werepresently nosing round looking for food. Two hours march in fullmarching order makes men hungry, and hungry men are ardent explorers. The dry and wet canteens faced one another, and each was capable ofaccommodating a hundred men. Never were canteens crowded so quickly, never have hundreds of the hungry and drouthy clamoured so eagerly foradmission as on that day. But time worked marvels; at the end of anhour we fell in again outside a vast amount of victuals, and thesea-sickness of the previous night, and the strain of the morning'smarch were things over which now we could be humorously reminiscent. 

Sheepskin jackets, the winter uniform of the trenches, were served outto us, and all were tried on. They smelt of something chemical andunpleasant, but were very warm and quite polar in appearance. 

"Wish my mother could see me now, " Bill the Cockney remarked. "My, shewouldn't think me 'alf a cove. It's a balmy. I discovered the (p. 021)South Pole, I'm thinkin'. "

"More like you're up the pole!" some one cut in, then continued, "Ifthey saw us at St. Albans[1] now! Bet yer they wouldn't say as we'refor home service. "

 [Footnote 1: It was at St. Albans that we underwent most of our training. ]

That night we slept in bell-tents, fourteen men in each, packed tightas herrings in a barrel, our feet festooning the base of the centralpole, our heads against the lower rim of the canvas covering. Movementwas almost an impossibility; a leg drawn tight in a cramp disturbedthe whole fabric of slumbering humanity; the man who turned round camein for a shower of maledictions. In short, fourteen men lying down ina bell-tent cannot agree for very long, and a bell-tent is not aparadise of sympathy and mutual agreement. 

We rose early, washed and shaved, and found our way to the canteen, abig marquee under the control of the Expeditionary Force, where breadand butter, bacon and tea were served out for breakfast. Soldiersrecovering from wounds worked as waiters, and told, when they had amoment to spare, of hair-breadth adventures in the trenches. They (p. 022)found us willing listeners; they had lived for long in the localityfor which we were bound, and the whole raw regiment had a personalinterest in the narratives of the wounded men. Bayonet-charges werediscussed. 

"I've been in three of 'em, " remarked a quiet, inoffensive-lookingyouth who was sweeping the floor of the room. "They were a bit 'ot, but nothin' much to write 'ome about. Not like a picture in thepapers, none of them wasn't. Not much stickin' of men. You just opsout of your trench and rush and roar, like 'ell. The Germans fire andthen run off, and it's all over. "

After breakfast feet were inspected by the medical officer. We satdown on our packs in the parade ground, took off our boots, andshivered with cold. The day was raw, the wind sharp and penetrating;we forgot that our sheepskins smelt vilely, and snuggled into them, glad of their warmth. The M. O. Asked questions: "Do your boots pinch?""Any blisters?" "Do you wear two pairs of socks?" &c. , &c. Twothousand feet passed muster, and boots were put on again. 

The quartermaster's stores claimed our attention afterwards, and (p. 023)the attendants there were almost uncannily kind. "Are you sure you'vegot everything you want?" they asked us. "There mayn't be a chance toget fitted up after this. " Socks, pull-throughs, overcoats, regimentalbuttons, badges, hats, tunics, oil-bottles, gloves, puttees, and laceslittered the floor and were piled on the benches. We took what werequired; no one superintended our selection. 

At St. Albans, where we had been turned into soldiers, we often stoodfor hours waiting until the quartermaster chose to give us a fewinches of rifle-rag; here a full uniform could be obtained by pickingit up. And our men were wise in selecting only necessities; they stillremembered the march of the day before. All took sparingly and chosewisely. Fancy socks were passed by in silence, the homely woollenarticle, however, was in great demand. Bond Street was forgotten. The"nut" was a being of a past age, or, if he still existed, he wasundergoing a complete transformation. Also he knew what socks werebest for the trenches. 

At noon we were again ready to set out on our journey. A tin ofbully-beef and six biscuits, hard as rocks, were given to each man (p. 024)prior to departure. Sheepskins were rolled into shape and fastened onthe tops of our packs, and with this additional burden on the shoulderwe set out from the rest-camp and took our course down the hill. Onthe way we met another regiment coming up to fill our place, to sleepin our bell-tents, pick from the socks which we had left behind, andto meet for once, the first and last time perhaps, a quartermaster whois really kind in the discharge of his professional duties. We marchedoff, and sang our way into the town and station. Our trucks werealready waiting, an endless number they seemed lined up in the sidingwith an engine in front and rear, and the notice "Hommes 40 chevaux20" in white letters on every door. The night before I had slept in abell-tent where a man's head pointed to each seam in the canvas, to-night it seemed as if I should sleep, if that were possible, in astill more crowded place, where we had now barely standing room, andwhere it was difficult to move about. But a much-desired relief camebefore the train started, spare waggons were shunted on, and a numberof men were taken from each compartment and given room elsewhere. (p. 025)In fact, when we moved off we had only twenty-two soldiers in ourplace, quite enough though when our equipment, pack, rifle, bayonet, haversack, overcoat, and sheepskin tunic were taken into account. 

A bale of hay bound with wire was given to us for bedding, andbully-beef, slightly flavoured, and biscuits were doled out forrations. Some of us bought oranges, which were very dear, and paidthree halfpence apiece for them; chocolate was also obtained, and oneor two adventurous spirits stole out to the street, contrary toorders, and bought _café au lait_ and _pain et beurre_, drank thefirst in the _estaminet_, and came back to their trucks munching thelatter. 

At noon we started out on the journey to the trenches, a gay partythat found expression for its young vitality in song. Thesliding-doors and the windows were open; those of us who were notlooking out of the one were looking out of the other. To most it was anew country, a place far away in peace and a favourite resort of thewealthy; but now a country that called for any man, no matter howpoor, if he were strong in person and willing to give his life awaywhen called upon to do so. In fact, the poor man was having his firstholiday on the Continent, and alas!--perhaps his last; and like (p. 026)cattle new to the pasture fields in Spring, we were surging full oflife and animal gaiety. 

We were out on a great adventure, full of thrill and excitement; thecurtain which surrounded our private life was being lifted; we stoodon the threshold of momentous events. The cottagers who laboured bytheir humble homes stood for a moment and watched our train go by; nowand again a woman shouted out a blessing on our mission, and ancientmen seated by their doorsteps pointed in the direction our train wasgoing, and drew lean, skinny hands across their throats, and yelledadvice and imprecations in hoarse voices. We understood. The ancientwarriors ordered us to cut the Kaiser's throat and envied us the job. 

The day wore on, the evening fell dark and stormy. A cold wind fromsomewhere swept in through chinks in windows and door, and chilled thecompartment. The favourite song, _Uncle Joe_, with its catchingchorus, When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo, Eberybody starts aswayin to and fro, Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor, Yellin' "Uncle Joe, give us more! give us more!"

died away into a melancholy whimper. Sometimes one of the men wouldrise, open the window and look out at a passing hamlet, where (p. 027)lights glimmered in the houses and heavy waggons lumbered along theuneven streets, whistle an air into the darkness and close the windowagain. My mate had an electric torch--by its light we opened thebiscuit box handed in when we left the station, and biscuits andbully-beef served to make a rather comfortless supper. At ten o'clock, when the torch refused to burn, and when we found ourselves short ofmatches, we undid the bale, spread out the hay on the floor of thetruck and lay down, wearing our sheepskin tunics and placing ourovercoats over our legs. 

We must have been asleep for some time. We were awakened by thestopping of the train and the sound of many voices outside. The doorwas opened and we looked out. An officer was hurrying by, shoutingloudly, calling on us to come out. On a level space bordering the linea dozen or more fires were blazing merrily, and dixies with someboiling liquid were being carried backwards and forwards. A sergeantwith a lantern, one of our own men, came to our truck and clamberedinside. 

"Every man get his mess tin, " he shouted. "Hurry up, the train's notstopping for long, and there's coffee and rum for us all. " (p. 028)

"I wish they'd let us sleep, " someone who was fumbling in his packremarked in a sleepy voice. "I'm not wantin' no rum and cawfee. Lastnight almost choked in the bell-tent, the night before sea-sick, andnow wakened up for rum and cawfee. Blast it, I say!"

We lined up two deep on the six-foot way, shivering in the bittercold, our mess-tins in our hands. The fires by the railway threw a dimlight on the scene, officers paraded up and down issuing orders, everybody seemed very excited, and nearly all were grumbling at beingawakened from their beds in the horse-trucks. Many of our mates werenow coming back with mess-tins steaming hot, and some would come to ahalt for a moment and sip from their rum and coffee. Chilled to thebone we drew nearer to the coffee dixies. What a warm drink it wouldbe! I counted the men in front--there were no more than twelve orthirteen before me. Ah! how cold! and hot coffee--suddenly a whistlewas blown, then another. 

"Back to your places!" the order came, and never did a more unwillingparty go back to bed. We did not learn the reason for the order; (p. 029)in the army few explanations are made. We shivered and slumbered tilldawn, and rose to greet a cheerless day that offered us biscuits andbully-beef for breakfast and bully-beef and biscuits for dinner. Athalf-past four in the afternoon we came to a village and formed intocolumn of route outside the railway station. Two hours march laybefore us we learned, but we did not know where we were bound. As wewaited ready to move off a sound, ominous and threatening, rumbled infrom the distance and quivered by our ears. We were hearing the soundof guns!

CHAPTER III (p. 030)

OUR FRENCH BILLETS

 The fog is white on Glenties moors, The road is grey from Glenties town, Oh! lone grey road and ghost-white fog, And ah! the homely moors of brown. 

The farmhouse where we were billeted reminded me strongly of my homein Donegal with its fields and dusky evenings and its spirit ofbrooding quiet. Nothing will persuade me, except perhaps the Censor, that it is not the home of Marie Claire, it so fits in with thedescription in her book. 

The farmhouse stands about a hundred yards away from the main road, witha cart track, slushy and muddy running across the fields to the verydoor. The whole aspect of the place is forbidding, it looks squalid anddilapidated, and smells of decaying vegetable matter, of manure and everyother filth that can find a resting place in the vicinity of an uncleandwelling-place. But it is not dirty; its home-made bread and beer areexcellent, the new-laid eggs are delightful for breakfast, the milk andbutter, fresh and pure, are dainties that an epicure might rave (p. 031)about. 

We easily became accustomed to the discomforts of the place, to themidden in the centre of the yard, to the lean long-eared pigs that tryto gobble up everything that comes within their reach, to the hensthat flutter over our beds and shake the dust of ages from thebarn-roof at dawn, to the noisy little children with the dirty facesand meddling fingers, who poke their hands into our haversacks, to thefarm servants who inspect all our belongings when we are out onparade, and even now we have become accustomed to the very rats thatscurry through the barn at midnight and gnaw at our equipment anddevour our rations when they get hold of them. One night a rat bit aman's nose--but the tale is a long one and I will tell it at some othertime. 

We came to the farm forty of us in all, at the heel of a cold Marchday. We had marched far in full pack with rifle and bayonet. Aadditional load had now been heaped on our shoulders in the shape ofthe sheepskin jackets, the uniform of the trenches, indispensable tothe firing line, but the last straw on the backs of overburdenedsoldiers. The march to the barn billet was a miracle of endurance, (p. 032)but all lived it through and thanked Heaven heartily when it was over. That night we slept in the barn, curled up in the straw, our waterproofsheets under us and our blankets and sheepskins round our bodies. Itwas very comfortable, a night, indeed, when one might wish to remainawake to feel how very glorious the rest of a weary man can be. 

Awaking with dawn was another pleasure; the barn was full of the scentof corn and hay and of the cow-shed beneath. The hens had alreadyflown to the yard and the dovecot was voluble. Somewhere near a girlwas milking, and we could hear the lilt of her song as she worked; acart rumbled off into the distance, a bell was chiming, and the dogsof many farms were exchanging greetings. The morning was one to beremembered. 

But mixed with all these medley of sounds came one that was almost new;we heard it for the first time the day previous and it had been in ourears ever since; it was with us still and will be for many a day tocome. Most of us had never heard the sound before, never heard itssummons, its murmur or its menace. All night long it was in the air, and sweeping round the barn where we lay, telling all who chanced (p. 033)to listen that out there, where the searchlights quivered across theface of heaven, men were fighting and killing one another: soldiers ofmany lands, of England, Ireland and Scotland, of Australia, and Germany;of Canada, South Africa, and New Zealand; Saxon, Gurkha, and Prussian, Englishman, Irishman, and Scotchman were engaged in deadly combat. Thesound was the sound of guns--our farmhouse was within the range of thebig artillery. 

We were billeted a platoon to a barn, a section to a granary, anddespite the presence of rats and, incidentally, pigs, we were happy. On one farm there were two pigs, intelligent looking animals withroguish eyes and queer rakish ears. They were terribly lean, almost aslean as some I have seen in Spain where the swine are as skinny asGranada beggars. They were very hungry and one ate a man'sfood-wallet and all it contained, comprising bread, army biscuits, canned beef, including can and other sundries. "I wish the animal hadchoked itself, " my mate said when he discovered his loss. Personally Ihad a profound respect for any pig who voluntarily eats army (p. 034)biscuit. 

We got up about six o'clock every morning and proceeded to wash andshave. All used the one pump, sometimes five or six heads were stuckunder it at the same moment, and an eager hand worked the handle, andpoured a plentiful supply of very cold water on the close croppedpates. The panes of the farmhouse window made excellent shavingmirrors and, incidentally, I may mention that rifle-slings generallyserve the purpose of razor strops. Breakfast followed toilet; most ofthe men bought _café-au-lait_, at a penny a basin, and home-madebread, buttered lavishly, at a penny a slice. A similar repast wouldcost sixpence in London. 

Parade then followed. In England we had cherished the illusion thatlife abroad would be an easy business, merely consisting of firingpractices in the trenches, followed by intervals of idleness inrest-camps, where cigarettes could be obtained for the asking, andtots of rum would be served out _ad infinitum_. This rum would have acertain charm of its own, make everybody merry, and banish alldiscomforts due to frost and cold for ever. Thus the men thought, though most of our fellows are teetotallers. We get rum now, few (p. 035)drink it; we are sated with cigarettes, and smoke them as if in dutybound; the stolen delight of the last "fag-end" is a dream of thepast. Parades are endless, we have never worked so hard since wejoined the army; the minor offences of the cathedral city are full-growncrimes under long artillery range; a dirty rifle was only a matter forwords of censure a month ago, a dirty rifle now will cause its ownerto meditate in the guard-room. 

Dinner consists of bully beef and biscuits; now and again we fry thebully beef on the farmhouse stove, and when cash is plentiful cook anegg with it. The afternoon is generally given up to practisingbayonet-fighting, and our day's work comes to an end about sixo'clock. In the evening we go into the nearest village and discussmatters of interest in some _café_. Here we meet all manner of men, Gurkhas fresh from the firing line; bus-drivers, exiles from London;men of the Army Service Corps; Engineers, kilted Highlanders, menrecovering from wounds, who are almost fit to go to the trenchesagain; French soldiers, Canadian soldiers, and all sorts of people, helpers in some way or another of the Allies in the Great War. 

We have to get back to our billets by eight o'clock, to stop out (p. 036)after that hour is a serious crime here. A soldier out of doors atmidnight in the cathedral city was merely a minor offender. But underthe range of long artillery fire all things are different for thesoldier. 

St. Patrick's Day was an event. We had a half holiday, and at night, with the aid of beer, we made merry as men can on St. Patrick's Day. We sang Irish songs, told stories, mostly Cockney, and laughed withoutrestraint as merry men will, for to all St. Patrick was an admirableexcuse for having a good and rousing time. 

There is, however, one little backwater of rest and quiet into whichwe men of blood and iron drift at all too infrequent intervals--thatis when we become what is known officially as "barn orderly. " A barnorderly is the company unit who looks after the billets of the men outon parade. In due course my turn arrived, and the battalion marchedaway leaving me to the quiet of farmyard. 

Having heaped up the straw, our bedding, in one corner of the barn, swept the concrete floor, rolled the blankets, explained to thegossipy farm servant that I did not "compree" her gibberish, and (p. 037)watched her waddle across the midden towards the house, my duties wereended. I was at liberty until the return of the battalion. It was allvery quiet, little was to be heard save the gnawing of the rats in thecorner of the barn and the muffled booming of guns from "outthere"--"out there" is the oft repeated phrase that denotes thelocality of the firing line. 

There was sunlight and shade in the farmyard, the sun lit up the pumpon the top of which a little bird with salmon-pink breast, white-tipped tail, and crimson head preened its feathers; in the shadewhere our barn and the stables form an angle an old lady in snowysunbonnet and striped apron was sitting knitting. It was good to bethere lying prone upon the barn straw near the door above the crazyladder, writing letters. I had learned to love this place and thesepeople whom I seem to know so very well from having read René Bazin, Daudet, Maupassant, Balzac and Marie Claire. High up and far away tothe west a Zeppelin was to be seen travelling in a westerly direction;the farmer's wife, our landlady, had just rescued a tin of bully beeffrom one of her all-devouring pigs; at the barn door lay my recentlycleaned rifle and ordered equipment--how incongruous it all was (p. 038)with the home of Marie Claire. 

Suddenly I was brought back to realities by the recollection that thebattalion was to have a bath that afternoon and towels and soap mustbe ready to take out on the next parade. 

The next morning was beautifully clear; the sun rising over the firingline lit up wood and field, river and pond. The hens were noisy in thefarmyard, the horse lines to the rear were full of movement, horsesstrained at their tethers eager to break away and get free from thecaptivity of the rope; the grooms were busy brushing the animals' legsand flanks, and a slight dust arose into the air as the work wascarried on. 

Over the red-brick houses of the village the church stood high, itsspire clearly defined against the blue of the sky. The door of the_café_ across the road opened, and the proprietress, a merry-faced, elderly woman, came across to the farmhouse. She purchased some newlylaid eggs for breakfast, and entered into conversation with our men, some of whom knew a little of her language. They asked about her sonin the trenches; she had heard from him the day before and he was (p. 039)quite well and hoped to have a holiday very soon. He would come homethen and spend a fortnight with the family. She looked forward to hiscoming, he had been away from her ever since the war started; she hadnot seen him for eight whole months. What happiness would be hers whenhe returned! She waved her hand to us as she went off, trippinglightly across the roadway and disappearing into the _café_. She wasgoing to church presently; it was Holy Week when the Virgin listenedto special intercessors, and the good matron of the _café_ prayedhourly for the safety of her soldier boy. 

At ten o'clock we went to chapel, our pipers playing _The Wearing ofthe Green_ as we marched along the crooked village streets, our rifleson our shoulders and our bandoliers heavy with the ball cartridgewhich we carried. The rifle is with us always now, on parade, onmarch, in _café_, billet, and church; our "best friend" is our eternalcompanion. We carried it into the church and fastened the sling to thechair as we knelt in prayer before the altar. We occupied the largerpart of the building, only three able-bodied men in civilian clothingwere in attendance. 

The youth of the country were out in the trenches, and even here (p. 040)in the quiet little chapel with its crucifixes, images, and pictures, there was the suggestion of war in the collection boxes for woundedsoldiers, in the crêpe worn by so many women; one in every ten was inmourning, and above all in the general air of resignation which showedon all the faces of the native worshippers. 

The whole place breathed war, not in the splendid whirlwind rush ofmen mad in the wild enthusiasm of battle, but in silent yearning, heartfelt sorrow, and great bravery, the bravery of women who remainat home. Opposite us sat the lady of the _café_, her head low down onher breast, and the rosary slipping bead by bead through her fingers. Now and again she would stir slightly, raise her eyes to the Virgin onthe right of the high altar, and move her lips in prayer, then shewould lower her head again and continue her rosary. 

As far as I could ascertain singing in church was the sole privilegeof the choir, none of the congregation joined in the hymns. But to-daythe church had a new congregation--the soldiers from England, the menwho sing in the trenches, in the billet, and on the march; the men whoglory in song on the last lap of a long, killing journey in full (p. 041)marching order. To-day they sang a hymn well-known and loved, theclarion call of their faith was started by the choir. As one man thesoldiers joined in the singing, and their voices filled the building. The other members of the congregation looked on for a moment in surprise, then one after another they started to sing, and in a moment nearlyall in the place were aiding the choir. One was silent, however, thelady of the _café_; still deep in prayer she scarcely glanced at thesingers, her mind was full of another matter. Only a mother thinkingabout a loved son can so wholly lose herself from the world. And as Ilooked at her I thought I detected tears in her eyes. 

The priest, a pleasant faced young man, who spoke very quickly (I havenever heard anybody speak like him), thanked the soldiers, and throughthem their nation for all that was being done to help in the war;prayers were said for the men at the front, those who were stillalive, as well as those who had given up their lives for theircountry's sake, and before leaving we sang the national anthem, our's, _God Save the King_. 

With the pipers playing at our front, and an admiring crowd of (p. 042)boys following, we took our way back to our billets. On the march amate was speaking, one who had been late coming on parade in themorning. 

"Saw the woman of the _café_ in church?" he asked me. "Saw hercrying?"

"I thought she looked unhappy. "

"Just after you got off parade the news came, " my mate told me. "Herson had been killed. She is awfully upset about it and no wonder. Shewas always talking about her _petit garçon_, and he was to be home onholidays shortly. "

Somewhere "out there" where the guns are incessantly booming, anameless grave holds the "_petit garçon_, " the _café_ lady's son; nextSunday another mourner will join with the many in the village churchand pray to the Virgin Mother for the soul of her beloved boy. 

CHAPTER IV (p. 043)

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE TRENCHES

 Four by four in column of route, By roads that the poplars sentinel, Clank of rifle and crunch of boot-- All are marching and all is well. White, so white is the distant moon, Salmon-pink is the furnace glare, And we hum, as we march, a ragtime tune, Khaki boys in the long platoon, Going and going--anywhere. 

"The battalion will move to-morrow, " said the Jersey youth, repeatingthe orders read out in the early part of the day, and removing a clotof farmyard muck from the foresight guard of his rifle as he spoke. Itwas seven o'clock in the evening, the hour when candles were stuck intheir cheese sconces and lighted. Cakes of soap and lumps of cheeseare easily scooped out with clasp-knives and make excellent sconces;we often use them for that purpose in our barn billet. We had beenquite a long time in the place and had grown to like it. But to-morrowwe were leaving. 

"Oh, dash the rifle!" said the Jersey boy, getting to his feet andkicking a bundle of straw across the floor of the barn. "To-morrow (p. 044)night we'll be in the trenches up in the firing line. "

"The slaughter line, " somebody remarked in the corner where thedarkness hung heavy. A match was lighted disclosing the speaker's faceand the pipe which he held between his teeth. 

"No smoking, " yelled a corporal, who had just entered. "You'll burnthe damned place down and get yourself as well as all of us intotrouble. "

"Oh blast the barn!" muttered Bill Sykes, a narrow chested Cockneywith a good-humoured face that belied his nickname. "It's only fit forrats and there's 'nuff of 'em 'ere. I'm goin' to 'ave a fag anyway. Got me?"

The corporal asked Bill for a cigarette and lit it. "We're all matesnow and we'll make a night of it, " he cried. "Damn the barn, there'llbe barns when we're all washed out with Jack Johnsons. What are youdoin', Feelan?"

Feelan, an Irishman with a brogue that could be cut with a knife, laiddown the sword which he was burnishing and glanced at the non-com. 

"The Germans don't fire at men with stripes, I hear, " he remarked, "They only shoot rale good soldiers. A livin' corp'ral's hardly as (p. 045)good as a dead rifleman. "

Six foot three of Cumberland bone and muscle detached itself from thestraw and looked round the barn. We call it Goliath on account of itssize. 

"Who's to sing the first song, " asked Goliath. "A good hearty song!"

"One with whiskers on it!" said the corporal. 

"I'll slash the game up and give a rale ould song, whiskersto the toes of it, " said Feelan, shoving his sword in its scabbard andthrowin' himself flat back on the straw. "Its a song about thetime Irelan' was fightin' for freedom and it's called _The Rising ofthe Moon_! A great song entirely it is, and I cannot do it justice. "

Feelan stood up, his legs wide apart and both his thumbs stuck in theupper pockets of his tunic. Behind him the barn stretched out into thegloom that our solitary candle could not pierce. On either side rifleshung from the wall, and packs and haversacks stood high from the strawin which most of the men had buried themselves, leaving nothing buttheir faces, fringed with the rims of Balaclava helmets, exposed toview. The night was bitterly cold, outside where the sky stood highsplashed with countless stars and where the earth gripped tight on (p. 046)itself, the frost fiend was busy; in the barn, with its medley of men, roosting hens and prowling rats all was cosy and warm. Feelan clearedhis throat and commenced the song, his voice strong and clear filledthe barn:--

 "Arrah! tell me Shan O'Farrel; tell me why you hurry so?" "Hush, my bouchal, hush and listen, " and his cheeks were all aglow-- "I've got orders from the Captain to get ready quick and soon For the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon, At the risin' of the moon! At the risin' of the moon! And the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon!"

"That's some song, " said the corporal. "It has got guts in it. I'msick of these ragtime rotters!"

"The old songs are always the best ones, " said Feelan, clearing histhroat preparatory to commencing a second verse. 

"What about _Uncle Joe_?" asked Goliath, and was off with a regimentalfavourite. 

 When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo-- ("Oh!" the occupants of the barn yelled. ) Ev'rybody starts a swayin' to and fro-- ("Ha!" exclaimed the barn. ) Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor!-- ("What!" we chorused. ) Crying, "Uncle Joe, give us more, give us more!"

"Give us no more of that muck!" exclaimed Feelan, burrowing into (p. 047)the straw, no doubt a little annoyed at being interrupted in his song. "Damn ragtime!"

"There's ginger in it!" said Goliath. "Your old song is as flat asFrench beer!"

"Some decent music is what you want, " said Bill Sykes, and forthwithbegan strumming an invisible banjo and humming _Way down upon theSwanee Ribber_. 

The candle, the only one in our possession, burned closer to thecheese sconce, a daring rat slipped into the light, stopped still fora moment on top of a sheaf of straw, then scampered off again, shadowsdanced on the roof, over the joists where the hens were roosting, anunsheathed sword glittered brightly as the light caught it, and Feelanlifted the weapon and glanced at it. 

"Burnished like a lady's nail, " he muttered. 

"Thumb nail?" interrogated Goliath. 

"Ragnail, p'raps, " said the Cockney. 

"I wonder whether we'll have much bayonet-fightin' or not?" remarkedthe Jersey boy, looking at each of us in turn and addressing no one inparticular. 

"We'll get some now and again to keep us warm!" said the corporal. (p. 048)"It'll be 'ot when it comes along. "

"'Ot's not the word, " said Bill; "I never was much drawn to soldierin''fore the war started, but when it came along I felt I'd like to 'avea 'and in the gime. There, that candle's goin' out!"

"Bunk!" roared the corporal, putting his pipe in his pocket andseizing a blanket, the first to hand. Almost immediately he was underthe straw with the blanket wrapped round him. We were not backward infollowing, and all were in bed when the flame which followed the waxso greedily died for lack of sustenance. 

To-morrow night we should be in the trenches. 

CHAPTER V (p. 049)

FIRST BLOOD

 The nations like Kilkenny cats, Full of hate that never dies out, Tied tail to tail, hung o'er a rope, Still strive to tear each other's eyes out. 

The company came to a halt in the village; we marched for three miles, and the morning being a hot one we were glad to fall out and lie downon the pavement, packs well up under our shoulders and our legsstretched out at full length over the kerbstone into the gutter. Thesweat stood out in beads on the men's foreheads and trickled downtheir cheeks on to their tunics. The white dust of the roadway settledon boots, trousers, and putties, and rested in fine layers onhaversack folds and cartridge pouches. Rifles and bayonets, spotlessin the morning's inspection, had lost all their polished lustre andwere gritty to the touch. We carried a heavy load, two hundred roundsof ball cartridge, a loaded rifle with five rounds in magazine, a packstocked with overcoat, spare underclothing, and other field (p. 050)necessaries, a haversack containing twenty-four hours rations, andsword and entrenching tool per man. We were equipped for battle andwere on our way towards the firing line. 

A low-set man with massive shoulders, bull-neck and heavy jowl hadjust come out of an _estaminet_, a mess-tin of beer in his hand, andknife and fork stuck in his putties. 

"Going up to the slaughter line, mateys?" he enquired, an amused smilehovering about his eyes, which took us all in with one penetratingglance. 

"Yes, " I replied. "Have you been long out here?"

"About a matter of nine months. "

"You've been lucky, " said Mervin, my mate. 

"I haven't gone West yet, if that's what you mean, " was the answer. "'Oo are you?"

"The London Irish. "

"Territorials?"

"That's us, " someone said. 

"First time up this way?"

"First time. "

"I knew that by the size of your packs, " said the man, the smilereaching his lips. "Bloomin' pack-horses you look like. If you want aword of advice, sling your packs over a hedge, keep a tight grip (p. 051)of your mess-tin, and ram your spoon and fork into your putties. Mypack went West at Mons. "

"You were there then?"

"Blimey, yes. " was the answer. 

"How did you like it?"

"Not so bad, " said the man. "'Ave a drink and pass the mess-tin round. There is only one bad shell, that's the one that 'its you, and ifyou're unlucky it'll come your way. The same about the bullet withyour number on it; it can't miss you if it's made for you. And if everyou go into a charge--Think of your pals, matey!" he roared at the manwho was greedily gulping down the contents of the mess-tin, "You'reswigging all the stuff yourself. For myself I don't care much for thisbeer, it has no guts in it, one good English pint is worth an ocean ofthis dashed muck. Good-bye"--we were moving off, "and good luck toyou!"

Mervin, perspiring profusely, marched by my side. He and I have beengreat comrades, we have worked, eaten, and slept together, andcommitted sin in common against regimental regulations. Mervin hasbeen a great traveller, he has dug for gold in the Yukon, grownoranges in Los Angeles, tapped for rubber in Camerango (I don't (p. 052)know where the place is, but I love the name), and he can eat a tin ofbully beef, and relish the meal. He is the only man in our section whocan enjoy it, one of us cares only for cheese, and few grind biscuitswhen they can beg bread. 

A battalion is divided into four companies, a company contains fourplatoons made up of sections of unequal strength; our sectionconsisted of thirteen--there are only four boys left now, Mervin hasbeen killed, five have been wounded, two have become stretcherbearers, and one has left us to join another company in which one ofhis mates is placed. Poor Mervin! How sad it was to lose him, and muchsadder is it for his sweetheart in England. He was engaged; often hetold me of his dreams of a farm, a quiet cottage and a garden at homewhen the war came to an end. Somewhere in a soldier's grave he sleeps. I know not where he lies, but one day, if the fates spare me, I willpay a visit to the resting-place of a true comrade and a staunchfriend. 

Outside the village we formed into single file. It was reported thatthe enemy shelled the road daily, and only three days before the RoyalEngineers lost thirty-seven men when going up to the trenches on thesame route. In the village all was quiet, the _cafés_ were open, (p. 053)and old men, women, and boys were about their daily work as usual. There were very few young men of military age in the place; all wereengaged in the business of war. 

A file marched on each side of the road. Mervin was in front of me;Stoner, a slender youth, tall as a lance and lithe as a poplar, marched behind, smoking a cigarette and humming a tune. He worked as aclerk in a large London club whose members were both influential andwealthy. When he joined the army all his pay was stopped, and up tothe present he has received from his employers six bars of chocolateand four old magazines. His age is nineteen, and his job is being keptopen for him. He is one of the cheeriest souls alive, a great worker, and he loves to listen to the stories which now and again I tell tothe section. When at St. Albans he spent six weeks in hospitalsuffering from tonsilitis. The doctor advised him to stay at home andget his discharge; he is still with us, and once, during our heaviestbombardment, he slept for a whole eight hours in his dug-out. All therest of us remained awake, feeling certain that our last hour hadcome. 

Teak and Kore, two bosom chums, marched on the other side of the (p. 054)road. Both are children almost; they may be nineteen, but neither lookit; Kore laughs deep down in his throat, and laughs heartiest when hisown jokes amuse the listeners. He is not fashioned in a strong mould, but is an elegant marcher, and light of limb; he may be a clerk inbusiness, but as he is naturally secretive we know nothing of hisprofession. Kore is also a punster who makes abominable puns; theseamuse nobody except, perhaps, himself. Teak, a good fellow, is knownto us as Bill Sykes. He has a very pale complexion, and has the mostdelightful nose in all the world; it is like a little white potato. Bill is a good-humored Cockney, and is eternally involved in argument. He carries a Jew's harp and a mouth-organ, and when not fingering onehe is blowing music-hall tunes out of the other. 

Goliath, six foot three of bone and muscle, is a magnificent animal. The gods forgot little of their old-time cunning in the making of him, in the forging of his shoulders, massive as a bull's withers, in theshaping of his limbs, sturdy as pillars of granite and supple aswillows, in the setting of his well-poised head, his heavy jaw, (p. 055)and muscled neck. But the gods seem to have grown weary of a momentousmasterpiece when they came to the man's eyes, and Goliath wears glasses. For all that he is a good marksman and, strange to say, he delights inthe trivialities of verse, and carries an earmarked Tennyson aboutwith him. 

Pryor is a pessimist, an artist, a poet, a writer of stories; hedrifted into our little world on the march and is with us still. Hedid not like his previous section and applied for a transfer intoours. He gloats over sunsets, colours, unconventional doings, hopesthat he will never marry a girl with thick ankles, and is certain thathe will never live to see the end of the War. Pryor, Teak, Kore, andStoner have never used a razor; they are as beardless as babes. 

We were coming near the trenches. In front, the two lines of menstretched on as far as the eye could see; we were near the rear andsinging _Macnamara's Band_, a favourite song with our regiment. Suddenly a halt was called. A heap of stones bounded the roadway, andwe sat down, laying our rifles on the fine gravel. 

The crash came from the distance, probably five hundred yards in front, and it sounded like a waggon-load of rubble being emptied on a (p. 056)landing and clattering down a flight of stairs. 

"What's that?" asked Stoner, flicking the ash from the tip of hiscigarette with the little finger. 

"Some transport has broken down. "

"Perhaps it's a shell, " I ventured, not believing what I said. 

"Oh! your grandmother. "

Whistling over our head it came with a swish similar to that made by awet sheet shaken in the wind, and burst in the field on the other sideof the road. A ball of white smoke poised for a moment in mid-air, curled slowly upwards, and gradually faded away. I looked at my mates. Stoner was deadly pale; it seemed as if all the blood had rushed awayfrom his face. Teak's mouth was a little open, his cigarette, stickingto his upper lip, hung down quivering, and the ash was falling on histunic; a smile almost of contempt played on Pryor's face, and Goliathyawned. At the time I wondered if he were posing. He spoke:--

"There's only one bad shell, you know, " he said. "It hasn't come thisway yet. See that woman?" He pointed at the field where the shell (p. 057)had exploded. At the far end a woman was working with a hoe, her headbowed over her work, and her back bent almost double. Two children, aboy and a girl, came along the road hand in hand, and deep in achildish discussion. The world, the fighting men, and the burstingshells were lost to them. They were intent on their own littleaffairs. For ourselves we felt more than anything else a sensation ofsurprise--surprise because we were not more afraid of the burstingshrapnel. 

"Quick march!"

We got to our feet and resumed our journey. We were now passingthrough a village where several houses had been shattered, and one wasalmost levelled to the ground. But beside it, almost intact, althoughnot a pane of glass remained in the windows, stood a _café_. A palestick of a woman in a white apron, with arms akimbo, stood on thethreshold with a toddling infant tugging at her petticoats. 

Several French soldiers were inside, seated round a table, drinkingbeer and smoking. One man, a tall, angular fellow with a heavy beard, seemed to be telling a funny story; all his mates were laughingheartily. A horseman came up at this moment, one of our soldiers, (p. 058)and his horse was bleeding at the rump, where a red, ugly gash showedon the flesh. 

"Just a splinter of shell, " he said, in answer to our queries. "Theone that burst there, " he pointed with his whip towards the fieldwhere the shrapnel had exploded: "'Twas only a whistler. "

"What did you think of it, " I called to Stoner. 

"I didn't know what to think first, " was the answer, "then when I cameto myself I thought it might have done for me, and I got a kind ofshock just like I'd get when I have a narrow shave with a 'bus inLondon. "

"And you, Pryor?"

"I went cold all over for a minute. "

"Bill?"

"Oh! Blast them is what I say!" was his answer. "If it's going to doyou in 'twill do you in, and that's about the end of it. Well, sing asong to cheer us up, " and without another word he began to bellow outone of our popular rhymes. 

 Oh! the Irish boys they are the boys To drive the Kaiser balmy. And _we'll_ smash up that fool Von Kluck And all his bloomin' army!

We came to a halt again, this time alongside a Red Cross motor (p. 059)ambulance. In front, with the driver, one of our boys was seated; hiscoat sleeve ripped from the shoulder, and blood trickling down his armon to his clothes; inside, on the seat, was another with his right legbare and a red gash showing above the knee. He looked dazed, but wassmoking a cigarette. 

"Stopped a packet, matey?" Stoner enquired. 

"Got a scratch, but it's not worth while talking about, " was theanswer. "I'll remember you to your English friends when I get back. "

"You're all right, matey, " said a regular soldier who stood on thepavement, addressing the wounded man. "I'd give five pounds for awound like that. You're damned lucky, and its your first journey!"

"Have you been long out here?" asked Teak. 

"Only about nine months, " replied the regular. "There are seven of theold regiment left, and it makes me wish this damned business was overand done with. "

"Ye don't like war, then. "

"Like it! Who likes it? only them that's miles away from the stinks, and cold, and heat, and everything connected with the ---- work. " (p. 060)

"But this is a holy war, " said Pryor, an inscrutable smile playinground his lips. "God's with us, you know. "

"We're placing more reliance on gunpowder than on God, " I remarked. 

"Blimey! talk about God!" said the regular. 

"There's more of the damned devil in this than there is of anythingelse. They take us out of the trenches for a rest, send us to church, and tell us to love our neighbours. Blimey! next day they send you upto the trenches again and tell you to kill like 'ell. "

"Have you ever been in a bayonet charge?" asked Stoner. 

"Four of them, " we were told, "and I don't like the blasted work, never could stomach it. "

The ambulance waggon whirred off, and the march was resumed. 

We were now about a mile from the enemy's lines, and well into theprovince of death and desolation. We passed the last ploughman. He wasa mute, impotent figure, a being in rags, guiding his share, andturning up little strips of earth on his furrowed world. The old home, now a jumble of old bricks getting gradually hidden by the greengrasses, the old farm holed by a thousand shells, the old plough, (p. 061)and the old horses held him in bondage. There was no other world forthe man; he was a dumb worker, crawling along at the rear of thedestructive demon War, repairing, as far as he was able, the damagewhich had been done. 

We came to a village, literally buried. Holes dug by high explosiveshells in the roadway were filled up with fallen masonry. This was apoint at which the transports stopped. Beyond this, man was the beastof burden--the thing that with scissors-like precision cut off, paceby pace, the distance between him and the trenches. There is somethingpathetic in the forward crawl, in the automatic motion of boots risingand falling at the same moment; the gleaming sword handles wavingbackwards and forwards over the hip, and, above all, in thestretcher-bearers with stretchers slung over their shoulders marchingalong in rear. The march to battle breathes of something of aninevitable event, of forces moving towards a destined end. Allindividuality is lost, the thinking ego is effaced, the men are spokesin a mighty wheel, one moving because the other must, all fearingdeath as hearty men fear it, and all bent towards the same goal. 

We were marched to a red brick building with a shrapnel-shivered (p. 062)roof, and picks and shovels were handed out to us. 

"You've got to help to widen the communication trench to-day!" we weretold by an R. E. Officer who had taken charge of our platoon. 

As we were about to start a sound made quite familiar to me what timeI was in England as a marker at our rifle butts, cut through the air, and at the same moment one of the stray dogs which haunt their old andnow unfamiliar localities like ghosts, yelled in anguish as he wassniffing the gutter, and dropped limply to the pavement. A Frenchsoldier who stood in a near doorway pulled the cigarette from hisbearded lips, pointed it at the dead animal, and laughed. A comradewho was with him shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. 

"That dashed sniper again!" said the R. E. Officer. 

"Where is he?" somebody asked innocently. 

"I wish we knew, " said the officer. "He's behind our lines somewhere, and has been at this game for weeks. Keep clear of the roadway!" hecried, as another bullet swept through the air, and struck the wallover the head of the laughing Frenchman, who was busily rolling (p. 063)a fresh cigarette. 

Four of our men stopped behind to bury the dog, the rest of us foundour way into the communication trench. A signboard at the entrance, with the words "To Berlin, " stated in trenchant words underneath, "This way to the war. "

The communication trench, sloping down from the roadway, was a narrowcutting dug into the cold, glutinous earth, and at every fifty pacesin alternate sides a manhole, capable of holding a soldier with fullequipment, was hollowed out in the clay. In front shells were exploding, and now and again shrapnel bullets and casing splinters sung over ourheads, for the most part delving into the field on either side, butsometimes they struck the parapets and dislodged a pile of earth anddust, which fell on the floor of the trench. The floor was paved withbricks, swept clean, and almost free from dirt; there was a generalair of cleanliness about the place, the level floor, the smooth sides, and the well-formed parapets. An Engineer walking along the top, andwell back from the side, counted us as we walked along in line withhim. He had taken charge of our section as a working party, and whenhe turned to me in making up his tally I saw that he wore a ribbon (p. 064)on his breast. 

"He has got the Distinguished Conduct Medal, " Mervin whispered. "Howdid you get it?" he called up to the man. 

"Just the luck of war, " was the modest answer. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen, that will be quite sufficient for me. Are you just new out?"he asked. 

"Oh, we've been a few weeks in training here. "

We met another Engineer coming out, his face was dripping with blood, and he had a khaki handkerchief tied round his hand. 

"How did it happen?" I asked. 

"Oh, a damned pip-squeak (a light shrapnel shell) caught me on theparapet, " he laughed, squeezing into a manhole. "Two of your boys havecopped it bad along there. No, I don't think it was your fellows. Whoare you?"

"The London Irish. "

"Oh! 'twasn't you, 'twas the ----, " he said, rubbing a miry hand acrossthe jaw, dripping with blood, "I think the two poor devils are donein. Oh, this isn't much, " he continued, taking out a spare handkerchiefand wiping his face, "'twon't bring me back to England, worse (p. 065)luck! Are you from Chelsea?"

"Yes. "

"What about the chances for the Cup Final?" he asked, and somebodytook up the thread of conversation as I edged on to the spot where thetwo men lay. 

They were side by side, face upwards, in a disused trench thatbranched off from ours; the hand of one lay across the arm of theother, and the legs of both were curled up to their knees, almosttouching their chests. They were mere boys, clean of lip and chin andsmooth of forehead, no wrinkles had ever traced a furrow there. One'shat was off, it lay on the floor under his head. A slight red spotshowed on his throat, there was no trace of a wound. His mate'sclothes were cut away across the belly, the shrapnel had entered thereunder the navel, and a little blood was oozing out on to the trouser'swaist, and giving a darkish tint to the brown of the khaki. Twostretcher-bearers were standing by, feeling, if one could judge by thedejected look on their faces, impotent in the face of such a calamity. Two first field dressings, one open and the contents trod on theground, the other fresh as when it left the hands of the makers, (p. 066)lay idle beside the dead man. A little distance to the rear ayoungster was looking vacantly across the parapet, his eyes fixed onthe ruined church in front, but his mind seemed to be deep insomething else, a problem which he failed to solve. 

One of the stretcher-bearers pointed at the youth, then at the hatlessbody in the trench. 

"Brothers, " he said. 

For a moment a selfish feeling of satisfaction welled up in our lungs. Teak gave it expression, his teeth chattering even as he spoke, "Itmight be two of us, but it isn't, " and somehow with the thought came asensation of fear. It might be our turn next, as we might go underto-day or to-morrow; who could tell when the turn of the next wouldcome? And all that day I was haunted by the figure of the youth whowas staring so vacantly over the rim of the trench, heedless of thebursting shells and indifferent to his own safety. 

The enemy shelled persistently. Their objective was the ruined church, but most of their shells flew wide or went over their mark, and madematters lively in Harley Street, which ran behind the house of God. 

"Why do they keep shellin' the church?" Bill asked the engineer, (p. 067)who never left the parapet even when the shells were bursting barely ahundred yards away. Like the rest of us, Bill took the precaution toduck when he heard the sound of the explosion. 

"That's what they always do, " said Stoner, "I never believed it evenwhen I read it in the papers at home, but now--"

"They think that we've ammunition stored there, " said the engineer, "and they always keep potting at the place. "

"But have we?"

"I dunno. "

"We wouldn't do it, " said Kore, who was of a rather religious turn ofmind. "But they, the bounders, would do anything. Are they the brutesthe papers make them out to be? Do they use dum-dum bullets?"

"This is war, and men do things that they'd not do in the ordinaryway, " was the noncommittal answer of the Engineer. 

"Have you seen many killed?" asked Mervin. 

"Killed!" said the man on the parapet. "I think I have! You don't gothrough this and not see sights. I never even saw a dead man beforethis war. Now!" he paused. "That what we saw just now, " he (p. 068)continued, alluding to the death of the two soldiers in the trench, "never moves me. _You'll_ feel it a bit being just new out, but whenyou're a while in the trenches you'll get used to it. "

In front a concussion shell blew in a part of the trench, filling itup to the parapet. That afternoon we cleared up the mess and put downa flooring of bricks in a newly opened corner. When night came we wentback to the village in the rear. "The Town of the Last Woman" our mencalled it. Slept in cellars and cooked our food, our bully stew, ourpotatoes, and tea in the open. Shells came our way continually, butfor four days we followed up our work and none of our battalion"stopped a packet. "

CHAPTER VI (p. 069)

IN THE TRENCHES

 Up for days in the trenches, Working and working away; Eight days up in the trenches And back again to-day. Working with pick and shovel, On traverse, banquette, and slope, And now we are back and working With tooth-brush, razor, and soap. 

We had been at work since five o'clock in the morning, digging away atthe new communication trench. It was nearly noon now, and rations hadnot come; the cook's waggons were delayed on the road. 

Stoner, brisk as a bell all the morning, suddenly flung down hisshovel. 

"I'm as hungry as ninety-seven pigs, " he said, and pulled a biscuitfrom his haversack. 

"Now I've got 'dog, ' who has 'maggot'?"

"Dog and maggot" means biscuit and cheese, but none of us had thelatter; cheese was generally flung into the incinerator, where itwasted away in smoke and smell. This happened of course when we werenew to the grind of war. 

"I've found out something, " said Mervin, rubbing the sweat from (p. 070)his forehead and looking over the parapet towards the firing line. Ashell whizzed by, and he ducked quickly. We all laughed, the trencheshave got a humour peculiarly their own. 

"There's a house in front, " said Mervin, "where they sell _café noir_and _pain et beurre_. "

"Git, " muttered Bill. "Blimey, there's no one 'ere but fools likeourselves. "

"I've just been in the house, " said Mervin, who had really been absentfor quite half an hour previously. "There are two women there, amother and daughter. A good-looking girl, Bill. " The eyes of theCockney brightened. 

"Twopence a cup for black coffee, and the same for bread and butter. "

"No civilians are allowed here, " Pryor remarked. 

"It's their own home, " said Mervin. "They've never left the place, andthe roof is broken and half the walls blown away. "

"I'm for coffee, " Stoner cried, jumping over the parapet and stoppinga shower of muck which a bursting shell flung in his face. We werewith him immediately, and presently found ourselves at the door (p. 071)of a red brick cottage with all the windows smashed, roof riddled withshot, and walls broken, just as Mervin had described. 

A number of our men were already inside feeding. An elderly, well-dressed woman, with close-set eyes, rather thick lips, and ashort nose, was grinding coffee near a flaming stove, on which an urnof boiling water was bubbling merrily. A young girl, not at allgood-looking but very sweet in manner, said "Bonjour, messieurs, " aswe entered, and approached each of us in turn to enquire into ourneeds. Mervin knew the language, and we placed the business in hishands, and sat down on the floor paved with red bricks; the few chairsin the house were already occupied. 

The house was more or less in a state of disorder; the few pictures onthe wall, the portrait of the woman herself, _The Holy FamilyJourneying to Egypt_, a print of Millet's _Angelus_, and a rudeetching of a dog hung anyhow, the frames smashed and the glass broken. A Dutch clock, with figures of nymphs on the face, and the timingpiece of a shell dangling from the weights, looked idly down, itspendulum gone and the glass broken. 

Bill, naughty rascal that he is, wanted a kiss with his coffee, (p. 072)and finding that Mervin refused to explain this to the girl, heundertook the matter himself. 

"Madham mosselle, " he said, lingering over every syllable, "I get nomilk with cawfee, compree?" The girl shook her head, but seemed to beamused. 

"Not compree, " he continued, "and me learnin' the lingo. I don't likeFrench, you spell it one way and speak it the other. Nark (confound)it, I say, Mad-ham-moss-elle, voo (what's "give, " Mervin?) dunno, that's it. Voo dunno me a kiss with the cawfee, compree, it's better'nmilk. "

"Don't be a pig, Bill, " Stoner cut in. "It's not fair to carry on likethat. "

"Nark you, Stoner!" Bill answered. "It mayn't be fair, but it'd benice if I got one. "

"Kiss a face like yours, " muttered Mervin, "she'd have a taste forqueer things if she did. "

"There's no accountin' for tastes, you know, " said Bill. "Oh, Blimey, that's done it, " he cried, stooping low as a shell exploded overhead, and drove a number of bullets into the roof. The old woman raised herhead for a moment and crossed herself, then she continued her (p. 073)work; the daughter looked at Bill, laughed, and punched him on theshoulder. In the action there was a certain contempt, and Bill forthwithrelapsed into silence and troubled the girl no further. When we gotout to our work again he spoke. 

"She was a fine hefty wench, " he said, "I'm tip over toes in love withher. "

"She's not one that I'd fancy, " said Stoner. 

"Her finger nails are so blunt, " mumbled Pryor, "I never could stand awoman with blunt finger nails. "

"What is your ideal of a perfect woman, Pryor?" I asked. 

"There is no perfect woman, " was his answer, "none that comes up to myideal of beauty. Has she a fair brow? It's merely a space forwrinkles. Are her eyes bright? What years of horror when you watchthem grow watery and weak with age. Are her teeth pearly white? Thetoothache grips them and wears them down to black and yellow stumps. Is her body graceful, her waist slender, her figure upright. Shebecomes a mother, and every line of her person is distorted, shebecomes a nightmare to you. Ah, perfect woman! They could not (p. 074)fashion you in Eden! When I think of a woman washing herself! Ugh!Your divinity washes the dust from her hair and particles of boiledbeef from between her teeth! Think of it, Horatio!"

"Nark it, you fool, " said Bill, lifting a fag end from the bottom ofthe trench and lighting it at mine. "Blimey, you're balmy as nineteenmaggots!"

It was a few days after this incident that, in the course of a talkwith Stoner, the subject of trenches cropped up. 

"There are trenches and trenches, " he remarked, as we were cuttingpoppies from the parapet and flinging the flowers to the superiorslope. "There are some as I almost like, some as I don't like, andsome so bad that I almost ran away from them. "

For myself I dislike the narrow trench, the one in which the left sidekeeps fraying the cloth of your sleeve, and the right side strives toopen furrows in your hand. You get a surfeit of damp, earthy smell inyour nostrils, a choking sensation in your throat, for the place issuffocating. The narrow trench is the safest, and most of the Englishcommunication trenches are narrow--so narrow, indeed, that a man witha pack often gets held, and sticks there until his comrades pull (p. 075)him clear. 

The communication trenches serve, however, for more purposes than forthe passage of troops; during an attack the reserves wait there, packed tight as sardines in a tin. When a man lies down he lies on hismate, when he stands up, if he dare to do such a thing, he runs therisk of being blown to eternity by a shell. Rifles, packs, haversacks, bayonets, and men are all messed up in an intricate jumble, thereserves lie down like rats in a trap, with their noses to the dampearth, which always reminds me of the grave. For them there is not themad exhilaration of the bayonet charge, and the relief of strikingback at the aggressor. They lie in wait, helpless, unable to movebackward or forward, ears greedy for the latest rumours from theactive front, and hearts prone to feelings of depression and despair. 

The man who is seized with cramp groans feebly, but no one can helphim. To rise is to court death, as well as to displace a dozengrumbling mates who have inevitably become part of the human carpetthat covers the floor of the trench. A leg moved disturbs the wholepattern; the sufferer can merely groan, suffer, and wait. When an (p. 076)attack is on the communication trenches are persistently shelled bythe enemy with a view to stop the advance of reinforcements. Once ourcompany lay in a trench as reserves for fourteen hours, and duringthat time upwards of two thousand shells were hurled in our direction, our trench being half filled with rubble and clay. Two mates, one onmy right and one on my left, were wounded. I did not receive ascratch, and Stoner slept for eight whole hours during the cannonade;but this is another story. 

Before coming out here I formed an imaginary picture of the trenches, ours and the enemy's, running parallel from the Vosges in the South tothe sea in the North. But what a difference I find in the reality. Where I write the trenches run in a strange, eccentric manner. At onepoint the lines are barely eighty yards apart; the ground there isunder water in the wet season; the trench is built of sandbags; allrifle fire is done from loop-holes, for to look over the parapet is tocourt certain death. A mountain of coal-slack lies between the lines alittle further along, which are in "dead" ground that cannot becovered by rifle fire, and are 1, 200 yards apart. It is here that thesniper plies his trade. He hides somewhere in the slack, and pots (p. 077)at our men from dawn to dusk and from dusk to dawn. He knows the rangeof every yard of our communication trenches. As we come in we find awarning board stuck up where the parapet is crumbling away. "Stooplow, sniper, " and we crouch along head bent until the danger zone ispast. 

Little mercy is shown to a captured sniper; a short shrift and swiftshot is considered meet penalty for the man who coolly and coldlysingles out men for destruction day by day. There was one, however, who was saved by Irish hospitality. An Irish Guardsman, cleaning histelescopic-rifle as he sat on the trench banquette, and smoking one ofmy cigarettes told me the story. 

"The coal slack is festooned with devils of snipers, smart fellowsthat can shoot round a corner and blast your eye-tooth out at fivehundred yards, " he said. "They're not all their ones, neither; there'sa good sprinkling of our own boys as well. I was doing a wee bit ofpot-shot-and-be-damned-to-you work in the other side of the slack, andmy eyes open all the time for an enemy's back. There was one near me, but I'm beggared if I could find him. 'I'll not lave this place (p. 078)till I do, ' I says to meself, and spent half the nights I was thereprowlin' round like a dog at a fair with my eyes open for the sniper. I came on his post wan night. I smelt him out because he didn't buryhis sausage skins as we do, and they stunk like the hole of hell whenan ould greasy sinner is a-fryin'. In I went to his sandbagged castle, with me gun on the cock and me finger on the trigger, but he wasn'tthere; there was nothin' in the place but a few rounds of ball an' ahalf empty bottle. I was dhry as a bone, and I had a sup withoutwinkin'. 'Mother of Heaven, ' I says, when I put down the bottle, 'itslittle ye know of hospitality, stranger, leaving a bottle with nothin'in it but water. I'll wait for ye, me bucko, ' and I lay down in thecorner and waited for him to come in. 

"But sorrow the fut of him came, and me waiting there till the colourof day was in the sky. Then I goes back to me own place, and there washe waiting for me. He only made one mistake, he had fallen to sleep, and he just sprung up as I came in be the door. 

"Immediately I had him by the big toe. 'Hands up, Hans'! I said, andhe didn't argue, all that he did was to swear like one of ourselvesand flop down. 'Why don't ye bury yer sausages, Hans?' I asked (p. 079)him. 'I smelt yer, me bucko, by what ye couldn't eat. Why didn't yehave something better than water in yer bottle?' I says to him. Dang aChristian word would he answer, only swear, an swear with nothin' barthe pull of me finger betwixt him and his Maker. But, ye know, I had akind of likin' for him when I thought of him comin' in to my housewithout as much as yer leave, and going to sleep just as if he was inhis own home. I didn't swear back at him but just said, 'This is onlya house for wan, but our King has a big residence for ye, so comealong before it gets any clearer, ' and I took him over to our trenchesas stand-to was coming to an end. "

Referring again to our trenches there is one portion known to me wherethe lines are barely fifty yards apart, and at the present time thegrass is hiding the enemy's trenches; to peep over the parapet givesone the impression of looking on a beautiful meadow splashed withdaisy, buttercup, and poppy flower; the whole is a riot ofcolour--crimson, heliotrope, mauve, and green. What a change from someweeks ago! Then the place was littered with dead bodies, and limp, (p. 080)lifeless figures hung on to the barbed wire where they had been caughtin a mad rush to the trenches which they never took. A breeze blowsacross the meadow as I write, carrying with it the odour of death andperfumed flowers, of aromatic herbs and summer, of desolation anddecay. It is good that Nature does her best to blot out all traces ofthe tragedy between the trenches. 

There is a vacant spot in our lines, where there is no trench and nonebeing constructed; why this should be I do not know. But all thisground is under machine-gun fire and within rifle range. No foe woulddare to cross the open, and the foe who dared would never live to getthrough. Further to the right, is a pond with a dead German stuckthere, head down, and legs up in air. They tell me that a concussionshell has struck him since and part of his body was blown over to ourlines. At present the pond is hidden and the light and shade playsover the kindly grasses that circle round it. On the extreme rightthere is a graveyard. The trench is deep in dead men's bones and isconsidered unhealthy. A church almost razed to the ground, with thespire blown off and buried point down in the earth, moulders in (p. 081)ruins at the back. It is said that the ghosts of dead monks praynightly at the shattered altar, and some of our men state that theyoften hear the organ playing when they stand as sentries on thebanquette. 

"The fire trench to-night, " said Stoner that evening, a nervous lightin his soft brown eyes, as he fumbled with the money on the cardtable. His luck had been good, and he had won over six francs; hegenerally loses. "Perhaps we're in for the high jump when we get upthere. "

"The high jump?" I queried, "what's that?"

"A bayonet charge, " he replied, dealing a final hand and inviting usto double the stakes as the deal was the last. A few wanted to playfor another quarter of an hour, but he would not prolong the game. Turning up an ace he shoved the money in his pocket and rose to hisfeet. 

In an hour we were ready to move. We carried much weight in additionto our ordinary load, firewood, cooking utensils, and extra loaves. Webought the latter at a neighbouring _boulangerie_, one that stillplied its usual trade in dangerous proximity to the firing-line. 

The loaves cost 6-1/2_d. _ each, and we prefer them to the English (p. 082)bread which we get now and again, and place them far above thetooth-destroying army biscuits. Fires were permitted in the trenches, we were told, and our officers advised us to carry our own wood withus. So it came about that the enemy's firing served as a usefulpurpose; we pulled down the shrapnel shattered rafters of our billets, broke them up into splinters with our entrenching tools, and tied themup into handy portable bundles which we tied on our packs. 

At midnight we entered Harley Street, and squeezed our way through thenarrow trench. The distance to the firing-line was a long one;traverse and turning, turning and traverse, we thought we should nevercome to the end of them. There was no shelling, but the questingbullet was busy, it sung over our heads or snapped at the sandbags onthe parapet, ever busy on the errand of death and keen on its mission. But deep down in the trench we regarded it with indifference. Our waywas one of safety. Here the bullet was foiled, and pick and shovelreigned masters in the zone of death. 

We were relieving the Scots Guards (many of my Irish friends (p. 083)belong to this regiment). Awaiting our coming, they stood in the fullmarching order of the regulations, packs light, forks and spoons intheir putties, and all little luxuries which we still dared to carryflung away. They had been holding the place for seven days, and werenow going back somewhere for a rest. 

"Is this the firing-line?" asked Stoner. 

"Yes, sonny, " came the answer in a voice which seemed to be full ofweariness. 

"Quiet here?" Mervin enquired, a note of awe in his voice. 

"Naethin' doin', " said a fresh voice that reminded me forcibly ofGlasgow and the Cowcaddens. "It's a gey soft job here. "

"No casualties?"

"Yin or twa stuck their heads o'er the parapet when they shouldn't andthey copped it, " said Glasgow, "but barrin' that 'twas quiet. "

In the traverse where I was planted I dropped into Ireland; heaps ofit. There was the brogue that could be cut with a knife, and thehumour that survived Mons and the Marne, and the kindliness thatsprang from the cabins of Corrymeela and the moors of Derrynane. 

"Irish?" I asked. (p. 084)

"Sure, " was the answer. "We're everywhere. Ye'll find us in a Gurkharegiment if you scratch the beggars' skins. Ye're not Irish!"

"I am, " I answered. 

"Then you've lost your brogue on the boat that took ye over, " somebodysaid. "Are ye dry?"

I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I sat down on the banquette. "Isthere something to drink?" I queried. 

"There's a drop of cold tay, me boy, " the man near me replied. "Where's yer mess-tin, Mike?"

A tin was handed to me, and I drank greedily of the cold black tea. The man Mike gave some useful hints on trench work. 

"It's the Saxons that's across the road, " he said, pointing to theenemy's lines which were very silent. I had not heard a bullet whistleover since I entered the trench. On the left was an interesting rifleand machine gun fire all the time. "They're quiet fellows, the Saxons, they don't want to fight any more than we do, so there's a kind ofunderstanding between us. Don't fire at us and we'll not fire at you. There's a good dug-out there, " he continued, pointing to a dark (p. 085)hole in the parados (the rear wall of the trench), "and ye'll find apot of jam and half a loaf in the corner. There's also a water jarhalf full. "

"Where do you get water?"

"Nearly a mile away the pump is, " he answered. "Ye've to cross thefields to get it. "

"A safe road?" asked Stoner. 

"Not so bad, ye know, " was the answer. 

"This place smells 'orrid, " muttered Bill, lighting a cigarette andflinging on his pack. "What is it?"

"Some poor devils between the trenches; they've been lyin' there sincelast Christmas. "

"Blimey, what a stink, " muttered Bill, "Why don't ye bury them up?"

"Because nobody dare go out there, me boy, " was the answer. "Anyway, it's Germans they are. They made a charge and didn't get as far ashere. They went out of step so to speak. "

"Woo-oo-oo!" Bill suddenly yelled and kicked a tin pail on to the floorof the trench. A shower of sparks flew up into the air and flutteredover the rim of the parapet. "I put my 'and on it, 'twas like a (p. 086)red 'ot poker, it burned me to the bone!"

"It's the brazier ye were foolin' about with, " said Mike, who wasbuckling his pack-straps preparatory to moving, "See, and don't putyer head over the top, and don't light a fire at night. Ye can put upas much flare as you like by day. Good-bye, boys, and good luck t'ye. "

"Any Donegal men in the battalion?" I called after him as he wasmoving off. 

"None that I know of, " he shouted back, "but there are two otherbattalions that are not here, maybe there are Donegal men there. Goodluck, boys, good luck!"

We were alone and lonely, nearly every man of us. For myself I feltisolated from the whole world, alone in front of the little line ofsand bags with my rifle in my hand. Who were we? Why were we there?Goliath, the junior clerk, who loved Tennyson; Pryor, the draughtsman, who doted on Omar; Kore, who read Fanny Eden's penny stories, andnever disclosed his profession; Mervin, the traveller, educated forthe Church but schooled in romance; Stoner, the clerk, who reads mybooks and says he never read better; and Bill, newsboy, street-arab, and Lord knows what, who reads _The Police News_, plays (p. 087)innumerable tricks with cards, and gambles and never wins. Why were wehere holding a line of trench, and ready to take a life or give one asoccasion required? Who shall give an answer to the question?

CHAPTER VII (p. 088)

BLOOD AND IRON--AND DEATH

 At night the stars are shining bright, The old-world voice is whispering near, We've heard it when the moon was light, And London's streets were verydear; But dearer now they are, sweetheart, The 'buses running to the Strand, But we're so far, so far apart, Each lonely in a different land. 

The night was murky and the air was splashed with rain. Following theline of trench I could dimly discern the figures of my mates pullingoff their packs and fixing their bayonets. These glittered brightly asthe dying fires from the trench braziers caught them, and the longarray of polished blades shone into their place along the dark brownsandbags. Looking over the parados I could see the country in rear, dim in the hazy night. A white, nebulous fog lay on the ground andenveloped the lone trees that stood up behind. Here and there I coulddiscern houses where no light shone, and where no people dwelt. Allthe inhabitants were gone, and in the village away to the right (p. 089)there was absolute silence, the stillness of the desert. To my mindcame words I once read or heard spoken, "The conqueror turns thecountry into a desert, and calls it peace. "

I clamped my bayonet into its standard and rested the cold steel onthe parapet, the point showing over; and standing up I looked acrossto the enemy's ground. 

"They're about three hundred yards away, " somebody whispered takinghis place at my side. "I think I can see their trenches. "

An indistinct line which might have been a parapet of sandbags, becamevisible as I stared through the darkness; it looked very near, and myheart thrilled as I watched. Suddenly a stream of red sparks swoopedupwards into the air and circled towards us. Involuntarily I stoopedunder cover, then raised my head again. High up in the air a brightflame stood motionless lighting up the ground in front, the spacebetween the lines. Every object was visible: a tree stripped of allits branches stood bare, outlined in black; at its foot I could seethe barbed wire entanglements, the wire sparkling as if burnished;further back was a ruined cottage, the bare beams and rafters givingit the appearance of a skeleton. A year ago a humble farmer might (p. 090)have lived there; his children perhaps played where dead were lying. Icould see the German trench, the row of sandbags, the country to rear, a ruined village on a hill, the flashes of rifles on the left . .. Theflare died out in mid-air and darkness cloaked the whole scene again. 

"What do you think of it, Stoner?" I asked the figure by my side. 

"My God, it's great, " he answered. "To think that they're over there, and the poor fellows lying out on the field!"

"They're their own bloomin' tombstones, anyway, " said Bill, croppingup from somewhere. 

"I feel sorry for the poor beggars, " I said. 

"They'll feel sorry for themselves, the beggars, " said Bill. 

"There, what's that?"

It crept up like a long white arm from behind the German lines, andfelt nervously at the clouds as if with a hand. Moving slowly fromNorth to South it touched all the sky, seeking for something. Suddenlyit flashed upon us, almost dazzling our eyes. In a flash Bill was uponthe banquette. 

"Nark the doin's, nark it, " he cried and fired his rifle. The (p. 091)report died away in a hundred echoes as he slipped the empty cartridgefrom its breech. 

"That's one for them, " he muttered. 

"What did you fire at?" I asked. 

"The blasted searchlight, " he replied, rubbing his little potato of anose. "That's one for 'em, another shot nearer the end of the war!"

"Did you hit it?" asked our corporal. 

"I must 'ave 'it it, I fired straight at it. "

"Splendid, splendid, " said the corporal. "Its only about three milesaway though. "

"Oh, blimey!. .. "

Sentries were posted for the night, one hour on and two off for eachman until dawn. I was sentry for the first hour. I had to keep a sharplook out if an enemy's working party showed itself when the rocketswent up. I was to fire at it and kill as many men as possible. Onethinks of things on sentry-go. 

"How can I reconcile myself to this, " I asked, shifting my rifle toget nearer the parapet. "Who are those men behind the line of sandbagsthat I should want to kill them, to disembowel them with my sword, blow their faces to pieces at three hundred yards, bomb them into (p. 092)eternity at a word of command. Who am I that I should do it; what havethey done to me to incur my wrath? I am not angry with them; I knowlittle of the race; they are utter strangers to me; what am I tothink, why should I think?

"Bill, " I called to the Cockney, who came by whistling, "what are youdoing?"

"I'm havin' a bit of rooty (food) 'fore goin' to kip (sleep). "

"Hungry?

"'Ungry as an 'awk, " he answered. "Give me a shake when your turn'sup; I'm sentry after you. "

There was a pause. 

"Bill!"

"Pat?"

"Do you believe in God?"

"Well, I do and I don't, " was the answer. 

"What do you mean?"

"I don't 'old with the Christian business, " he replied, "but I believein God. "

"Do you think that God can allow men to go killing one another likethis?"

"Maybe 'E can't help it. "

"And the war started because it had to be?

"It just came--like a war-baby. " (p. 093)

Another pause. 

"Yer write songs, don't yer?" Bill suddenly asked. 

"Sometimes. "

"Would yer write me one, just a little one?" he continued. "There wasa bird (girl) where I used to be billeted at St. Albans, and I wouldlike to send 'er a bit of poetry. "

"You've fallen in love?" I ventured. 

"No, not so bad as that--"

"You've not fallen in love. "

"Well its like this, " said my mate, "I used to be in 'er 'ouse and shemade 'ome-made torfee. "

"Made it well?"

"Blimey, yes; 'twas some stuff, and I used to get 'eaps of it. Sheused to slide down the banisters, too. Yer should 'ave seen it, Pat. It almost made me write poetry myself. "

"I'll try and do something for you, " I said. "Have you been in thedug-out yet?"

"Yes, it's not such a bad place, but there's seven of us in it, " saidBill, "it's 'ot as 'ell. But we wouldn't be so bad if Z---- was out ofit. I don't like the feller. "

"Why?" I asked, Z---- was one of our thirteen, but he couldn't (p. 094)pull with us. For some reason or other we did not like him. 

"Oh, I don't like 'im, that's all, " was the answer. "Z---- tries toget the best of everything. Give ye a drink from 'is water bottle whenyour own's empty; 'e wouldn't. I wouldn't trust 'im that much. " Heclicked his thumb and middle finger together as he spoke, and withoutanother word he vanished into the dug-out. 

On the whole the members of our section, divergent as the poles incivil life, agree very well. But the same does not hold good in thewhole regiment; the public school clique and the board school cliquelive each in a separate world, and the line of demarcation betweenthem is sharply drawn. We all live in similar dug-outs, but we bring anew atmosphere into them. In one, full of the odour of Turkishcigarettes, the spoken English is above suspicion; in another, stinking of regimental shag, slang plays skittles with our language. Only in No. 3 is there two worlds blent in one; our platoon officersays that we are a most remarkable section, consisting of literary menand babies. 

"Stand-to!" (p. 095)

I rose to my feet, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and promptly hit myhead a resounding blow on the roof. The impact caused me to take apace forward, and my boot rested on Stoner's face. 

"Get out of it, you clumsy Irish beggar!" he yelled, jumping up andstumbling over Mervin, who was presently afoot and marching overanother prostrate form. 

"Stand-to! Stand-to!"

We shuffled out into the open, and took up our posts on the banquette, each in fighting array, equipped with 150 rounds of ball cartridge andentrenching tool handle on hip. In the trenches we always sleep in ourequipment, by day we wear our bayonets in scabbard, at night thebayonets are always fixed. 

"Where's Z----?" asked Stoner, as we stood to our rifles. 

"In the dug-out, " I told him, "he's asleep. "

"'E is, is 'e?" yelled Bill, rushing to the door. "Come out of itlazybones, " he called. "Show a leg at once, and grease to your gun. The Germans are on the top of us. Come out and get shot in the open. "

Z---- stumbled from his bed and blinked at us as he came out. (p. 096)

"Is it true, Bill, are they 'ere?" he asked. 

"If they were 'ere you'd be a lot of good, you would, " said Bill. "Geton with the work. "

In the dusk and dawning we stand-to in the trenches ready to receivethe enemy if he attempt to charge. Probably on the other side he waitsfor our coming. Each stand-to lasts for an hour, but once in a fog westood for half a day. 

The dawn crept slowly up the sky, the firing on the left redoubled inintensity, but we could not now see the flashes from the rifles. Thelast star-rocket rose from the enemy's trench, hung bright in mid-airfor a space, and faded away. The stretch of ground between thetrenches opened up to our eyes. The ruined cottage, cold andshattered, standing mid-way, looked lonely and forbidding. Here andthere on the field I could see grey, inert objects sinking down, as itwere, on the grass. 

"I suppose that's the dead, the things lying on the ground, " saidStoner. "They must be cold poor devils, I almost feel sorry for them. "

The birds were singing, a blackbird hopped on to the parapet, lookedenquiringly in, his yellow bill moving from side to side, and (p. 097)fluttered away; a lark rose into the heavens warbling for some minutes, a black little spot on the grey clouds; he sang, then sank to earthagain, finding a resting place amongst the dead. We could see theGerman trenches distinctly now, and could almost count the sandbags onthe parapet. Presently on my right a rifle spoke. Bill was firingagain. 

"Nark the doin's, Bill, nark it, " Goliath shouted, mimicking theCockney accent. "You'll annoy those good people across the way. "

"An if I do!"

"They may fire at you!" said monumental Goliath with fine irony. 

"Then 'ere's another, " Bill replied, and fired again. 

"Don't expose yourself over the parapet, " said our officer, going hisrounds. "Fire through the loop-holes if you see anything to fire at, but don't waste ammunition. "

The loop-holes, drilled in steel plates wedged in the sandbags, openedon the enemy's lines; a hundred yards of this front was covered byeach rifle; we had one loop-hole in every six yards, and by day everysixth man was posted as sentry. 

Stoner, diligent worker that he is, set about preparing breakfast (p. 098)when stand-to was over. In an open space at the rear of the dug-out hefixed his brazier, chopped some wood, and soon had the regimentalissue of coke ablaze. 

"I'll cut the bacon, " I said, producing the meat which I had carriedwith me. 

"Put the stuff down here, " said Stoner, "and clear out of it. "

Stoner, busy on a job, brooks no argument, he always wants to do thework himself. I stood aside and watched. Suddenly an object, about thesize of a fat sausage, spun like a big, lazy bee through the air, andfifty paces to rear, behind a little knoll, it dropped quietly, as ifselecting a spot to rest on. 

"It's a bird, " said Stoner, "one without wings. "

It exploded with terrific force, and blew the top of the knoll intothe air; a shower of dust swept over our heads, and part of it droppedinto Stoner's fire. 

"That's done it, " he exclaimed, "what the devil was it?"

No explanation was forthcoming, but later we discovered that it was abomb, one of the morning greetings that now and again come to us (p. 099)from the German trench mortars. This was the first we had seen; someof our fellows have since been killed by them; and the blue-eyedJersey youth who was my friend at St. Albans, and who has been oftenspoken of in my little volume _The Amateur Army_, came face to facewith one in the trenches one afternoon. It had just been flung in, and, accompanied by a mate, my friend rounded a traverse in a desertedtrench and saw it lying peacefully on the floor. 

"What is it?" he asked, coming to a halt. 

"I don't know, it looks like a bomb!" was the sudden answering yell. "Run. "

A dug-out was near, and both shoved in, the Jersey boy last. But thebomb was too quick for him. Half an hour later the stretcher-bearerscarried him out, wounded in seventeen places. 

Stoner's breakfast was a grand success. The tea was admirable and thebacon, fried in the mess-tin lids, was done to a turn. In the matterof food we generally fare well, for our boys get a great amount ofeatables from home, also they have money to spend, and buy most oftheir food whenever that is possible. 

In the forenoon Pryor and I took up two earthen jars, a number of whichare supplied to the trenches, and went out with the intention of (p. 100)getting water. We had a long distance to go, and part of the way wehad to move through the trenches, then we had to take the roadbranching off to the rear. The journey was by no means a cheery one;added to the sense of suffocation, which I find peculiar to the narrowtrench, were the eternal soldiers' graves. At every turn where theparados opened to the rear they stared you in the face, the damp, clammy, black mounds of clay with white crosses over them. Always thestory was the same; the rude inscription told of the same tragedy: asoldier had been killed in action on a certain date. He might havebeen an officer, otherwise he was a private, a being with a name andnumber; now lying cold and silent by the trench in which he diedfighting. His mates had placed little bunches of flowers on his grave. Then his regiment moved off and the flowers faded. In some cases theman's cap was left on the black earth, where the little blades ofkindly grass were now covering it up. 

Most of the trench-dwellers were up and about, a few were cooking latebreakfasts, and some were washing. Contrary to orders, they had strippedto the waist as they bent over their little mess-tins of soapy (p. 101)water; all the boys seemed familiar with trench routine. They were deepin argument at the door of one dug-out, and almost came to blows. Therow was about rations. A light-limbed youth, with sloping shoulders, had thrown a loaf away when coming up to the trenches. He said hispack was heavy enough without the bread. His mates were very angrywith him. 

"Throwin' the grub away!" one of them said. "Blimey, to do a thinglike that! Get out, Spud 'Iggles!"

"Why didn't yer carry the rooty yourself?"

"Would one of us not carry it?"

"Would yer! Why didn't ye take it then?"

"Why didn't ye give it to us?"

"Blimey, listen to yer jor!" said Spud Higgles, the youth with thesloping shoulders. "Clear out of it, nuff said, ye brainlesstwisters!"

"I've more brains than you have, " said one of the accusers who, stripped to the waist, was washing himself. 

"'Ave yer? so 'ave I, " was the answer of the boy who lost the loaf, ashe raised a mess tin of tea from the brazier. 

"Leave down that mess-tin for a minute and I'll show yer who has (p. 102)the most brains, " said the man who was washing, sweeping the soapsudsfrom his eyes and bouncing into an aggressive attitude, with clenchedfists before him, in true fighting manner. 

"Leave down my mess-tin then!" was the answer. "Catch me! I've lostthings that way before, I'ave. "

Spud Higgles came off victor through his apt sarcasm. The sarcasticremark tickled the listeners, and they laughed the aggressive soldierinto silence. 

A number of men were asleep, the dug-outs were crowded, and a few layon the banquette, their legs stretched out on the sandbag platforms, their arms hanging loosely over the side, and their heads shrouded inBalaclava helmets. At every loop-hole a sentry stood in silent watch, his eyes rivetted on the sandbags ahead. Now and again a shot wasfired, and sometimes, a soldier enthusiastic in a novel position, fired several rounds rapid across Noman's land into the enemy'slines, but much to the man's discomfiture no reply came from the otherside. 

"Firin' at beastly sandbags!" one of the men said to me, "Blimey, (p. 103)that's no game. Yer 'ere and the sandbags is there, you never seeanything, and you've to fire at nothin'. They call this war. Strike meginger if it's like the pictures in _The Daily ----_; them papers isgreat liars!"

"Do you want to kill men?" I asked. 

"What am I here for?" was the rejoinder, "If I don't kill them they'llkill me. "

No trench is straight at any place; the straight line is done awaywith in the makeup of a trench. The traverse, jutting out in a sharpangle to the rear, gives way in turn to the fire position, curvingtowards the enemy, and there is never more than twelve yards liable tobe covered by enfilade fire. The traverse is the home of spareammunition, of ball cartridge, bombs, and hand-grenades. These arestored in depots dug into the wall of the trench. There are two thingswhich find a place anywhere and everywhere, the biscuit and the bullybeef. Tins of both are heaped in the trenches; sometimes they are usedfor building dug-outs and filling revêtements. Bully beef and biscuitsare seldom eaten; goodness knows why we are supplied with them. 

We came into the territory of another battalion, and were met by (p. 104)an officer. 

"Where are you going?" he asked. 

"For water, sir, " said Pryor. 

"Have you got permission from your captain?"

"No, sir. "

"Then you cannot get by here without it. It's a Brigade order, " saidthe officer. "One of our men got shot through the head yesterday whengoing for water. "

"Killed, sir, " I enquired. 

"Killed on the spot, " was the answer. 

On our way back we encountered our captain superintending some diggingoperation. 

"Have you got the water already?" he asked. 

"No, sir. "

"How is that?"

"An officer of the ---- wouldn't let us go by without a writtenpermission. "

"Why?"

"He said it was a Brigade order, " was Pryor's naïve reply. He wantedto go up that perilous road. The captain sat down on a sandbag, tookout a slip of paper (or borrowed one from Pryor), placed his hat onhis knee and the paper on his hat, and wrote us out the pass. (p. 105)

For twenty yards from the trench the road was sheltered by ourparapet, past that lay the beaten zone, the ground under the enemy'srifle fire. He occupied a knoll on the left, the spot where thefighting was heavy on the night before, and from there he had a goodview of the road. We hurried along, the jars striking against our legsat every step. The water was obtained from a pump at the back of aruined villa in a desolate village. The shrapnel shivered house wasnamed Dead Cow Cottage. The dead cow still lay in the open garden, itsbelly swollen and its left legs sticking up in the air like props inan upturned barrel. It smelt abominably, but nobody dared go out intothe open to bury it. 

The pump was known as Cock Robin Pump. A pencilled notice told that arobin was killed by a Jack Johnson near the spot on a certain date. Having filled our jars, Pryor and I made a tour of inspection of theplace. 

In a green field to the rear we discovered a graveyard, fenced inexcept at our end, where a newly open grave yawned up at us as ifaweary of waiting for its prey. 

"Room for extension here, " said Pryor. "I suppose they'll not (p. 106)close in this until the graves reach the edge of the roadway. Let'sread the epitaphs. "

How peaceful the place was. On the right I could see through a spacebetween the walls of the cottage the wide winding street of thevillage, the houses, cornstacks, and the waving bushes, and my soulfelt strangely quieted. In its peace, in its cessation from labour, there was neither anxiety nor sadness, there remained rest, placid andsad. It seemed as if the houses, all intact at this particular spot, held something sacred and restful, that with them and in them all wasgood. They knew no evil or sorrow. There was peace, the desiredconsummation of all things--peace brought about by war, the peace ofthe desert, and death. 

I looked at the first grave, its cross, and the rude lettering. Thiswas the epitaph; this and nothing more:--

 "An Unknown British Soldier. "

On a grave adjoining was a cheap gilt vase with flowers, English flowers, faded and dying. I looked at the cross. One of the Coldstream Guards laythere killed in action six weeks before. I turned up the black-edgedenvelope on the vase, and read the badly spelt message, "From his (p. 107)broken-hearted wife and loving little son Tommy. "

We gazed at it for a moment in silence. Then Pryor spoke. "I thinkwe'll go back, " he said, and there was a strained note in his voice;it seemed as if he wanted to hide something. 

On our way out to the road we stopped for a moment and gazed throughthe shattered window of Dead Cow Cottage. The room into which welooked was neatly furnished. A round table with a flower vase on itstood on the floor, a number of chairs in their proper position werenear the wall, a clock and two photos, one of an elderly man with aheavy beard, the other of a frail, delicate woman, were on themantlepiece. The pendulum of the clock hung idle; it must haveceased going for quite a long time. As if to heighten a picture ofabsolute comfort a cat sat on the floor washing itself. 

"Where will the people be?" I asked. 

"I don't know, " answered Pryor. "Those chairs will be useful in ourdug-out. Shall we take them?"

We took one apiece, and with chair on our head and jar in hand we (p. 108)walked towards the trenches. The sun was out, and it was now very hot. We sweated. My face became like a wet sponge squeezed in the hand;Pryor's face was very red. 

"We'll have a rest, " he said, and laying down the jar he placed hischair in the road and sat on it. I did the same. 

"You know Omar?" he asked. 

"In my calf-age I doated on him, " I answered. 

"What's the calf-age?"

"The sentimental period that most young fellows go through, " I said. "They then make sonnets to the moon, become pessimistic, criticiseeverything, and feel certain that they will become the hub of theuniverse one day. They prefer vegetable food to pork, and read Omar. "

"Have you come through the calf-age?"

"Years ago! You'll come through, too, Pryor--"

A bullet struck the leg of my chair and carried away a splinter ofwood. I got to my feet hurriedly. "Those trenches seem quite adistance away, " I said, hoisting my chair and gripping the jar as Imoved off, "and we'll be safer when we're there. "

All the way along we were sniped at, but we managed to get back (p. 109)safely. Finding that our supply of coke ran out we used the chairs forfirewood. 

CHAPTER VIII (p. 110)

TERRORS OF THE NIGHT

 Buzz fly and gad fly, dragon fly and blue, When you're in the trenches come and visit you, They revel in your butter-dish and riot on your ham, Drill upon the army cheese and loot the army jam. They're with you in the dusk and the dawning and the noon, They come in close formation, in column and platoon. There's never zest like Tommy's zest when these have got to die: For Tommy takes his puttees off and straffs the blooming fly. 

"Some are afraid of one thing, and some are afraid of another, " saidStoner, perching himself on the banquette and looking through theperiscope at the enemy's lines. "For myself I don't likeshells--especially when in the open, even if they are bursting half amile away. "

"Is that what you fear most?" I asked. 

"No, the rifle bullet is a thing I dread; the saucy little beggar isalways on the go. "

"What do you fear most, Goliath?" I asked the massive soldier who wascleaning his bayonet with a strip of emery cloth. 

"Bombs, " said the giant, "especially the one I met in the trench (p. 111)when I was going round the traverse. It lay on the floor in front ofme. I hardly knew what it was at first, but a kind of instinct told meto stand and gaze at it. The Germans had just flung it into the trenchand there it lay, the bounder, making up its mind to explode. It waslooking at me, I could see its eyes--"

"Git out, " said Bill, who was one of the party. 

"Of course, you couldn't see the thing's eyes, " said Goliath, "youlack imagination. But I saw its eyes, and the left one was winking atme. I almost turned to jelly with fear, and Lord knows how I got backround the corner. I did, however, and then the bomb went bang! 'Twassome bang that, I often hear it in my sleep yet. "

"We'll never hear the end of that blurry bomb, " said Bill. "For my ownpart I am more afraid of ----"

"What?"

"---- the sergeant-major than anythink in this world or in the next!"

I have been thrilled with fear three times since I came out here, fearthat made me sick and cold. I have the healthy man's dislike of (p. 112)death. I have no particular desire to be struck by a shell or a bullet, and up to now I have had only a nodding acquaintance with either. I ammore or less afraid of them, but they do not strike terror into me. Once, when we were in the trenches, I was sentry on the parapet aboutone in the morning. The night was cold, there was a breeze crooningover the meadows between the lines, and the air was full of the sharp, penetrating odour of aromatic herbs. I felt tired and was half asleepas I kept a lazy look-out on the front where the dead are lying on thegrass. Suddenly, away on the right, I heard a yell, a piercing, agonising scream, something uncanny and terrible. A devil from the pitbelow getting torn to pieces could not utter such a weird cry. Itthrilled me through and through. I had never heard anything like itbefore, and hope I shall never hear such a cry again. I do not knowwhat it was, no one knew, but some said that it might have been theyell of a Gurkha, his battle cry, when he slits off an opponent'shead. 

When I think of it, I find that my three thrills would be denied to adeaf man. The second occurred once when we were in reserve. The stenchof the house in which the section was billeted was terrible. By (p. 113)day it was bad, but at two o'clock in the morning it was devilish. Iawoke at that hour and went outside to get a breath of fresh air. Theplace was so eerie, the church in the rear with the spire battereddown, the churchyard with the bones of the dead hurled broadcast byconcussion shells, the ruined houses. .. . As I stood there I heard agroan as if a child were in pain, then a gurgle as if some one wasbeing strangled, and afterwards a number of short, weak, infantilecries that slowly died away into silence. 

Perhaps the surroundings had a lot to do with it, for I felt strangelyunnerved. Where did the cries come from? It was impossible to say. Itmight have been a cat or a dog, all sounds become different in thedark. I could not wander round to seek the cause. Houses were battereddown, rooms blocked up, cellars filled with rubble. There was nothingto do but to go back to bed. Maybe it was a child abandoned by amother driven insane by fear. Terrible things happen in war. 

The third fear was three cries, again in the dark, when a neighbouringbattalion sent out a working party to dig a sap in front of our lines. I could hear their picks and shovels busy in front, and suddenly (p. 114)somebody screamed "Oh! Oh! Oh!" the first loud and piercing, theothers weaker and lower. But the exclamation told of intense agony. Afterwards I heard that a boy had been shot through the belly. 

"I never like the bloomin' trenches, " said Bill. "It almost makes mepray every time I go up. "

"They're not really so bad, " said Pryor, "some of them are quite cushy(nice). "

"Cushy!" exclaimed Bill, flicking the ash from his cigarette with thetip of his little finger. "Nark it, Pryor, nark it, blimey, they arecushy if one's not caught with a shell goin' in, if one's not bombedfrom the sky or mined from under the ground, if a sniper doesn't snipe'arf yer 'ead off, or gas doesn't send you to 'eaven, or flies sendyou to the 'orspital with disease, or rifle grenades, pipsqueaks, andwhizz-bangs don't blow your brains out when you lie in the bottom ofthe trench with yer nose to the ground like a rat in a trap. If itwasn't for these things, and a few more, the trench wouldn't be such abad locality. "

He put a finger and a thumb into my cigarette case, drew out a fag, and lit it off the stump of his old one. He blew a puff of smoke (p. 115)into the air, stuck his thumbs behind his cartridge pouches, and fixeda look of pity on Pryor. 

"What are the few more things that you did not mention, Bill?" Iasked. 

"Few! Blimey, I should say millions. There's the stink of the dead menas well as the stink of the cheese, there's the dug-outs with the raincomin' in and the muck fallin' into your tea, the vermin, the blokesnorin' as won't let you to sleep, the fatigues that come when ye'regoin' to 'ave a snooze, the rations late arrivin' and 'arf poisonin'you when they come, the sweepin' and brushin' of the trenches, workfor a 'ousemaid and not a soldier, and the ----"

Bill paused, sweating at every pore. 

"Strike me ginger, balmy, and stony, " Bill concluded, "if it were notfor these few things the life in the trenches would be one of thecushiest in the world. "

CHAPTER IX (p. 116)

THE DUG-OUT BANQUET

 You ask me if the trench is safe? As safe as home, I say; Dug-outs are safest things on land, And 'buses running to the Strand Are not as safe as they. 

 You ask me if the trench is deep? Quite deep enough for me, And men can walk where fools would creep, And men can eat and write and sleep And hale and happy be. 

The dug-out is the trench villa, the soldiers' home, and is consideredto be proof against shrapnel bullets and rifle fire. Personally, I donot think much of our dug-outs, they are jerry-built things, loose inconstruction, and fashioned in haste. We have kept on improving them, remedying old defects, when we should have taken the whole thing topieces and started afresh. The French excel us in fashioning dug-outs;they dig out, we build. They begin to burrow from the trench downwards, and the roof of their shelter is on a line with the floor of thetrench; thus they have a cover over them seven or eight feet in (p. 117)thickness; a mass of earth which the heaviest shell can hardly piercethrough. We have been told that the German trenches are even moresecure, and are roofed with bricks, which cause a concussion shell toburst immediately it strikes, thus making the projectile lose most ofits burrowing power. One of our heaviest shells struck an enemy'sdug-out fashioned on this pattern, with the result that two of theresidents were merely scratched. The place was packed at the time. 

As I write I am sitting in a dug-out built in the open by the French. It is a log construction, built of pit-props from a neighbouringcoal-mine. Short blocks of wood laid criss-cross form walls four feetin thickness; the roof is quite as thick, and the logs are muchlonger. Yesterday morning, while we were still asleep, a four-inchshell landed on the top, displaced several logs, but did us no harm. The same shell (pipsqueaks we call them) striking the roof of one ofour trench dug-outs would blow us all to atoms. 

The dug-out is not peculiar to the trench. For miles back from thefiring-line the country is a world of dug-outs; they are everywhere, by the roadsides, the canals, and farmhouses, in the fields, the (p. 118)streets, and the gardens. Cellars serve for the same purpose. A fortnightago my section was billeted in a house in a mining town, and the enemybegan to shell the place about midnight. Bootless, half-naked, andhalf-asleep, we hurried into the cellar. The place was a regular BlackHole of Calcutta. It was very small, damp, and smelt of queer things, and there were six soldiers, the man of the house, his wife, and sevenchildren, one a sucking babe two months old, cooped up in the place. 

I did not like the place--in fact, I seldom like any dug-out, itreminds me of the grave, the covering earth, and worms, and alwaysthere is a feeling of suffocation. But I have enjoyed my stay in oneor two. There was a delightful little one, made for a single soldier, in which I stayed. At night when off sentry, and when I did not feellike sleeping, I read. Over my head I cut a niche in the mud, placedmy candle there, pulled down over the door my curtain, a real goodcurtain, taken from some neighbouring chateau, spent a few momentswatching the play of light and shadows on the roof, and listening tothe sound of guns outside, then lit a cigarette and read. Old (p. 119)Montaigne in a dug-out is a true friend and a fine companion. Acrossthe ages we held conversation as we have often done. Time and again Ihave read his books; there was a time when for a whole year I read achapter nightly: in a Glasgow doss-house, in a king's castle, in myIrish home, and now in Montaigne's own country, in a little earthydug-out, I made the acquaintance of the man again. The dawn broke tothe clatter of bayonets on the fire position when I put the book asideand buckled my equipment for the stand-to hour. 

The French trench dug-outs are not leaky, ours generally are, and theslightest shower sometimes finds its way inside. I have often awakenedduring the night to find myself soaked through on a floor covered withslush. When the weather is hot we sleep outside. In some cases thedug-out is handsomely furnished with real beds, tables, chairs, mirrors, and candlesticks of burnished brass. Often there are stoves built intothe clayey wall and used for cooking purposes. In "The Savoy" dug-out, which was furnished after this fashion, Section 3 once sat down to amemorable dinner which took a whole day long to prepare; and eatablesand wine were procured at great risk to life. Incidentally, Bill, (p. 120)who went out of the trenches and walked four kilometres to procure abottle of _vin rouge_ was rewarded by seven days' second fieldpunishment for his pains. 

Mervin originated the idea in the early morning as he was dressing afinger which he had cut when opening a tin of bully beef. He held upthe bleeding digit and gazed at it with serious eyes. 

"All for this tin of muck!" he exclaimed. "Suppose we have a goodsquare meal. I think we could get up one if we set to work. "

Stoner's brown eyes sparkled eagerly. 

"I know where there are potatoes and carrots and onions, " he said. "Out in a field behind Dead Cow Villa; I'm off; coming Pat?"

"Certainly, what are the others doing, Bill?"

"We must have fizz, " said my friend, and money was forthwith collectedfor wine. Bill hurried away, his bandolier round his shoulder and hisrifle at the slope; and Mervin undertook to set the place in order andarrange the dug-out for the banquet. Goliath dragged his massive weightover the parados and busied himself pulling flowers. Kore cleaned (p. 121)the mess-tins, and Pryor, artistic even in matters of food, set aboutpreparing a menu-card. 

When we returned from a search which was very successful, Stonerdivested himself of tunic and hat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, andgot on with the cooking. I took his turn at sentry-go, and Z----, sleeping on the banquette, roused his stout body, became interestedfor a moment, and fell asleep again. Bill returned with a bottle ofwine and seven eggs. 

"Where did you get them?" I asked. 

"'Twas the 'en as 'ad laid one, " he replied. "And it began to brag somuch about it that I couldn't stand it, so I took the egg, and itlooked so lonely all by itself in my 'and that I took the others tokeep it company. "

At six o'clock we sat down to dine. 

Our brightly burnished mess-tin lids were laid on the table, a neatlyfolded khaki handkerchief in front of each for serviette. Clean towelsserved for tablecloths, flowers--tiger-lilies, snapdragons, pinks, poppies, roses, and cornflowers rioted in colour over the rim of alooted vase. In solitary state a bottle of wine stood beside the flowers, and a box of cigars, the gift of a girl friend, with the lid open (p. 122)disclosed the dusky beauties within. The menu, Pryor's masterpiece, stood on a wire stand, the work of Mervin. 

Goliath seated at the table, was smiles all over, in fact, he was onemassive good humoured smile, geniality personified. 

"Anything fresh from the seat of war?" he asked, as he waited for thesoup. 

"According to the latest reports, " Pryor answered, "we've gained aninch in the Dardanelles and captured three trenches in Flanders. Wewere forced to evacuate two of these afterwards. "

"We miscalculated the enemy's strength, of course, " said Mervin. 

"That's it, " Pryor cut in. "But the trenches we lost were of nostrategic importance. "

"They never are, " said Kore. "I suppose that's why we lose thousandsto take 'em, and the enemy lose as many to regain them. "

"Soup, gentlemen, " Stoner interrupted, bringing a steaming tureen tothe table. "Help yourselves. "

"Mulligatawny?" said Pryor sipping the stuff which he had emptied intohis mess-tin, "I don't like this. "

[Illustration: Menu of the dug-out banquet] (p. 123)

"Wot, " muttered Bill, "wot's wrong with it?" (p. 124)

"As soup its above reproach, but the name, " said Pryor. "It's beastly. "

"Wot's wrong with it?"

"Everything, " said the artistic youth, "and besides I was fed as achild on mulligatawny, fed on it until I grew up and revolted. To meetit again here in a dug-out. Oh! ye gods!"

"I'll take it, " I said, for I had already finished mine. 

"Will you?" exclaimed Pryor, employing his spoon with Gargantuan zeal. "It's not quite etiquette. "

As he spoke a bullet whistled through the door and struck a tin ofcondensed milk which hung by a string from the rafter. The bullet wentright through and the milk oozed out and fell on the table. 

"Waiter, " said Goliath in a sharp voice, fixing one eye on the cook, and another on the falling milk. 

"Sir, " answered Stoner, raising his head from his mess-tin. 

"What beastly stuff is this trickling down? You shouldn't allow thisyou know. "

"I'm sorry, " said Stoner, "you'd better lick it up. "

"'Ad 'e, " cried Bill. "Wot will we do for tea?" The Cockney held (p. 125)a spare mess-tin under the milk and caught it as it fell. This wasconsidered very unseemly behaviour for a gentleman, and we suggestedthat he should go and feed in the servants' kitchen. 

A stew, made of beef, carrots, and potatoes came next, and this inturn was followed by an omelette. Then followed a small portion ofbeef to each man, we called this chicken in our glorious game ofmake-believe. Kore asserted that he had caught the chicken singing_The Watch on the Rhine_ on the top of a neighbouring chateau and tookit as lawful booty of war. 

"Chicken, my big toe!" muttered Bill, using his clasp-knife for atooth-pick. "It's as tough as a rifle sling. Yer must have got hold ofthe bloomin' weathercock. "

The confiture was Stoner's greatest feat. The sweet was made frombiscuits ground to powder, boiled and then mixed with jam. Never wasanything like it. We lingered over the dish loud in our praise of theenergetic Stoner. "By God, I'll give you a job as head-cook in myestablishment at your own salary, " said Pryor. "Strike me ginger, pink, and crimson if ever I ate anything like it, " exclaimed Bill. (p. 126)"We must 'ave a bit of this at every meal from now till the end of thewar. "

Coffee, wine, and cigars came in due course, then Section 3 clamouredfor an address. 

"Ool give it?" asked Bill. 

"Pat, " said Mervin. 

"Come on Pat, " chorused Section 3. 

I never made a speech in my life, but I felt that this was the momentto do something. I got to my feet. 

"Boys, " I said, "it is a pleasure to rise and address you, althoughyou haven't shaved for days, and your faces remind me every time Ilook at them of our rather sooty mess-tins. "

(Bill: "Wot of yer own phiz. ")

"Be quiet, Bill, " I said, and continued. "Of course, none of you areto blame for the adhesive qualities of mud, it must stick somewhere, and doubtless it preferred your faces; but you should have shaved; thetwo hairs on Pryor's upper lip are becoming very prominent. "

"Under a microscope, " said Mervin. 

"Hold your tongue, " I shouted, and Mervin made a mock apology. "To-night'sdinner was a grand success, " I said, "all did their work (p. 127)admirably. "

"All but you, " muttered Bill, "yer spent 'arf the time writin' whenyer should have been peelin' taters or pullin' onions. "

"I resent the imputation of the gentleman at the rear, " I said, "if Iwasn't peeling potatoes and grinding biscuits I was engaged inchronicling the doings of Section 3. I can't make you fat and famousat the same time, much though I'd like to do both. You are anestimable body of men; Goliath, the big elephant--

(Goliath: "Just a baby elephant, Pat. ")

"Mervin, who has travelled far and who loves bully stew; Pryor whodislikes girls with thick ankles, Kore who makes wash-out puns, Billwho has an insatiable desire for fresh eggs, and Stoner--I see a blushon his cheeks and a sparkle in his brown eyes already--I repeat thename Stoner with reverence. I look on the mess-tins which held theconfiture and almost weep--because it's all eaten. There's only onething to be done. Gentlemen, are your glasses charged?"

"There's nothin' now but water, " said Bill. 

"Water shame, " remarked the punster. 

"Hold your tongues, " I said, "fill them with water, fill them with (p. 128)anything. Ready? To the Section cook, Stoner, long life and ability tocook our sweets evermore. "

We drank. Just as we had finished, our company stretcher-bearers cameby the door, a pre-occupied look on their faces and dark clots ofblood on their trousers and tunics. 

"What has happened?" I asked. 

"The cooks have copped it, " one of the bearers answered. "They werecooking grub in a shed at the rear near Dead Cow Villa, and apip-squeak came plunk into the place. The head cook copped it in thelegs, both were broken, and Erney, you know Erney?"

"Yes?" we chorused. 

"Dead, " said the stretcher-bearer. "Poor fellow he was struck unconscious. We carried him to the dressing station, and he came to at the door. 'Mother!' he said, trying to sit up on the stretcher. That was hislast word. He fell back and died. "

There was a long silence. The glory of the flowers seemed to have fadedaway and the lighted cigars went out on the table. Dead! Poor fellow. He was such a clean, hearty boy, very obliging and kind. How often hadhe given me hot water, contrary to regulations, to pour on my tea. (p. 129)

"To think of it, " said Stoner. "It might have been any of us! We mustput these flowers on his grave. "

That night we took the little vase with its poppies, cornflowers, pinks, and roses, and placed them on the black, cold earth whichcovered Erney, the clean-limbed, good-hearted boy. May he rest inpeace. 

CHAPTER X (p. 130)

A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE

 Our old battalion billets still, Parades as usual go on. We buckle in with right good will, And daily our equipment don As if we meant to fight, but no! The guns are booming through the air, The trenches call us on, but oh! We don't go there, we don't go there!

I have come to the conclusion that war is rather a dull game, not thatblood-curdling, dashing, mad, sabre-clashing thing that is seen inpictures, and which makes one fearful for the soldier's safety. Thereis so much of the "everlastin' waitin' on an everlastin' road. " Theroad to the war is a journey of many stages, and there is much of whatappears to the unit as loitering by the wayside. We longed for action, for some adventure with which to relieve the period of "everlastin'waitin'. "

Nine o'clock was striking in the room downstairs and the old man andwoman who live in the house were pottering about, locking doors, andputting the place into order. Lying on the straw in the loft we (p. 131)could hear them moving chairs and washing dishes; they have seven sonsin the army, two are wounded and one is a prisoner in Germany. Theyare very old and are unable to do much hard work; all day long theylisten to the sound of the guns "out there. " In the evening they washthe dishes, the man helping the woman, and at night lock the doors andsay a prayer for their sons. Now and again they speak of their troublesand narrate stories of the war and the time when the Prussians passedby their door on the journey to Paris. "But they'll never pass hereagain, " the old man says, smoking the pipe of tobacco which our boyshave given him. "They'll get smashed out there. " As he speaks hepoints with a long lean finger towards the firing line, and lifts hisstick to his shoulder in imitation of a man firing a rifle. 

Ten o'clock struck. We were deep in our straw and lights had been outfor a long time. I couldn't sleep, and as I lay awake I could hearcorpulent Z---- snoring in the corner. Outside a wind was whistlingmournfully and sweeping through the joists of the roof where the redtiles had been shattered by shrapnel. There was something (p. 132)melancholy and superbly grand in the night; the heaven was splashedwith stars, and the glow of rockets from the firing line lit up thewhole scene, and at intervals blotted out the lights of the sky. Herein the loft all was so peaceful, so quiet; the pair downstairs hadgone to bed, they were now perhaps asleep and dreaming of their lovedones. But I could not rest; I longed to get up again and go out intothe night. 

Suddenly a hand tugged at my blanket, a form rose from the floor by myside and a face peered into mine. 

"It's me--Bill, " a low voice whispered in my ear. 

"Well?" I interrogated, raising myself on my elbow. 

"Not sleepin'?" mumbled Bill, lighting a cigarette as he flopped downon my blanket, half crushing my toes as he did so. "I'm not sleepingneither, " he continued. "Did you see the wild ducks to-day?"

"On the marshes? Yes. "

"Could we pot one?"

"Rubbish. We might as well shoot at the stars. "

"I never tried that game, " said Bill, with mock seriousness. "But (p. 133)I'm goin' to nab a duck. Strike me balmy if I ain't. "

"It'll be the guard-room if we're caught. "

"If _we_ are caught. Then you're comin'? I thought you'd be game. "

I slipped into my boots, tied on my puttees, slung a bandolier withten rounds of ball cartridge over my shoulder, and groped for my rifleon the rack beneath the shrapnel-shivered joists. Bill and I creptdownstairs and stole out into the open. 

"Gawd! that puts the cawbwebs out of one's froat, " whispered my mateas he gulped down mighty mouthfuls of cold night air. "This is great. I couldn't sleep. "

"But we'll never hit a duck to-night, " I whispered, my mind revertingto the white-breasted fowl which we had seen in an adjoining marshthat morning when coming back from the firing line. "Its madness todream of hitting one with a bullet. "

"Maybe yes and maybe no, " said my mate, stumbling across the middenand floundering into the field on the other side. 

We came to the edge of the marsh and halted for a moment. In front ofus lay a dark pool, still as death and fringed with long grass andosier beds. A mournful breeze blew across the place, raising a (p. 134)plaintive croon, half of resignation and half of protest from theosiers and grasses as it passed. A little distance away the skeletonof a house stood up naked against the sky, the cold stars shiningthrough its shattered rafters. "'Twas shelled like 'ell, that 'ouse, "whispered Bill, leaning on his rifle and fixing his eyes on the ruinedhomestead. "The old man at our billet was tellin' some of us about it. The first shell went plunk through the roof and two children and themother were bowled over. "

"Killed?"

"I should say so, " mumbled my mate; then, "There's one comin' ourway. " Out over the line of trenches it sped towards us, whistling inits flight, and we could almost trace by its sound the line itfollowed in the air. It fell on the pool in front, bursting as ittouched the water, and we were drenched with spray. 

"'Urt?" asked Bill. 

"Just wet a little. "

"A little!" he exclaimed, gazing at the spot where the shell exploded. "I'm soaked to the pelt. Damn it, 'twill frighten the ducks. "

"Have you ever shot any living thing?" I asked my mate as I tried (p. 135)to wipe the water from my face with the sleeve of my coat. 

"Me! Never in my nat'ral, " Bill explained. "But when I saw them ducksthis mornin' I thought I'd like to pot one o' em. "

"Its impossible to see anything now, " I told him. "And there's anothershell!"

It yelled over our heads and burst near our billet on the soft mossyfield which we had just crossed. Another followed, flew over the roofof the dwelling and shattered the wall of an outhouse to pieces. Somewhere near a dog barked loudly when the echo of the explosion diedaway, and a steed neighed in the horse-lines on the other side of themarsh. Then, drowning all other noises, an English gun spoke and aprojectile wheeled through the air and towards the enemy. The monsterof the thicket awake from a twelve hour sleep was speaking. Bill and Iknew where he was hidden; the great gun that the enemy had been tryingto locate for months and which he never discovered. He, the monster ofthe thicket, was working havoc in the foeman's trenches, and day afterday great searching shells sped up past our billet warm from theGerman guns, but always they went far wide of their mark. Never couldthey discover the locality of the terrifying ninety-pounder, he (p. 136)who slept all day in his thicket home, awoke at midnight and workeduntil dawn. 

"That's some shootin', " said my mate as the shells shrieked overhead. "Blimey, they'll shake the country to pieces--and scare the ducks. "

Along a road made of bound sapling-bundles we took our way into thecentre of the marsh. Here all was quiet and sombre; the marsh-worldseemed to be lamenting over some ancient wrong. At times a rat wouldsneak out of the grass, slink across our path and disappear in thewater, again; a lonely bird would rise into the air and cry piteouslyas it flew away, and ever, loud and insistent, threatening andterrible, the shells would fly over our heads, yelling out theirmenace of pain, of sorrow and death as they flew along. 

We killed no birds, we saw none, although we stopped out till thecolour of dawn splashed the sky with streaks of early light. As wewent in by the door of our billet the monster of the thicket was stillat work, although no answering shells sped up from the enemy's lines. Up in the loft Z---- was snoring loudly as he lay asleep on the straw, the blanket tight round his body, his jaw hanging loosely, and (p. 137)an unlighted pipe on the floor by his side. Placing our rifles on therack, Bill and I took off our bandoliers and lay down on our blankets. Presently we were asleep. 

That was how Bill and I shot wild duck in the marshes near the villageof--Somewhere in France. 

CHAPTER XI (p. 138)

THE MAN WITH THE ROSARY

 There's a tramp o' feet in the mornin', There's an oath from an N. C. O. , As up the road to the trenches The brown battalions go: Guns and rifles and waggons, Transports and horses and men, Up with the flush of the dawnin', And back with the night again. 

Sometimes when our spell in the trenches comes to an end we go backfor a rest in some village or town. Here the _estaminet_ or _débitant_(French as far as I am aware for a beer shop), is open to the Britishsoldier for three hours daily, from twelve to one and from six toeight o'clock. For some strange reason we often find ourselves busy onparade at these hours, and when not on parade we generally findourselves without money. I have been here for four months; looking atmy pay book I find that I've been paid 25 fr. (or in plain English, one pound) since I have come to France, a country where the weathergrows hotter daily, where the water is seldom drinkable, and where (p. 139)wine and beer is so cheap. Once we were paid five francs at five o'clockin the afternoon after five penniless days of rest in a village, andordered as we were paid, to pack up our all and get ready to set offat six o'clock for the trenches. From noon we had been playing cards, and some of the boys gambled all their pay in advance and lost it. Bill's five francs had to be distributed amongst several members ofthe platoon. 

"It's only five francs, anyway, " he said. "Wot matter whether I spendit on cards, wine, or women. I don't care for soldierin' as aprofession?"

"What is your profession, Bill?" Pryor asked; we never really knewwhat Bill's civil occupation was, he seemed to know a little of manycrafts, but was master of none. 

"I've been everything, " he replied, employing his little finger in theremoval of cigarette ash. "My ole man apprenticed me to a marker of'ot cross buns, but I 'ad a 'abit of makin' the long end of the crosson the short side, an' got chucked out. Then I learned 'ow to jumpthrough tin plates in order to make them nutmeg graters, but left thatjob after sticking plump in the middle of a plate. I had to stop (p. 140)there for three days without food or drink. They were thinnin' me out, see! Then I was a draughts manager at a bank, and shut the ventilators;after that I was an electric mechanic; I switched the lights on andoff at night and mornin'; now I'm a professional gambler, I lose allmy tin. "

"You're also a soldier, " I said. 

"Course, I am, " Bill replied. "I can present hipes by numbers, andknock the guts out of sandbags at five hundred yards. "

We did not leave the village until eight o'clock. It was now very darkand had begun to rain, not real rain, but a thin drizzle which mixedup with the flashes of guns, the glow of star-shells and the longtremulous glimmer of flashlights. The blood-red blaze of haystacksafire near Givenchy, threw a sombre haze over our line of march. Eventhrough the haze, star-shells showed brilliant in their many differentcolours, red, green, and electric white. The French send up a beautifullight which bursts into four different flames that burn standing highin mid-air for three minutes; another, a parachute star, holds the skyfor four minutes, and almost blots its more remote sisters from theheavens. The English and the Germans are content to fling rockets (p. 141)across and observe one another's lines while these flare out theirbrief meteoric life. The firing-line was about five miles away; thestarlights seemed to rise and fall just beyond an adjacent spinney, sodeceptive are they. 

Part of our journey ran along the bank of a canal; there had been someheavy fighting the night previous, and the wounded were still comingdown by barges, only those who are badly hurt come this way, the lessserious cases go by motor ambulance from dressing station tohospital--those who are damaged slightly in arm or head generallywalk. Here we encountered a party of men marching in single file withrifles, skeleton equipment, picks and shovels. In the dark it wasimpossible to distinguish the regimental badge. 

"Oo are yer?" asked Bill, who, like a good many more of us, wassmoking a cigarette contrary to orders. 

"The Camberwell Gurkhas, " came the answer. "Oo are yer?"

"The Chelsea Cherubs, " said Bill. "Up workin'!"

"Doin' a bit between the lines, " answered one of the working party. "Got bombed out and were sent back. "

"Lucky dogs, goin' back for a kip (sleep). " (p. 142)

"'Ad two killed and seven wounded. "

"Blimey!"

"Good luck, boys, " said the disappearing file as the darknessswallowed up the working party. 

The pace was a sharp one. Half a mile back from the firing-line weturned off to the left and took our way by a road running parallel tothe trenches. We had put on our waterproof capes, our khaki overcoatshad been given up a week before. 

The rain dripped down our clothes, our faces and our necks, eachsuccessive star-light showed the water trickling down our rifle buttsand dripping to the roadway. Stoner slept as he marched, his hand inKore's. We often move along in this way, it is quite easy, there islullaby in the monotonous step, and the slumbrous crunching of nailedboots on gravel. 

We turned off the road where it runs through the rubble and scatteredbricks, all that remains of the village of Givenchy, and took our wayacross a wide field. The field was under water in the wet season, anda brick pathway had been built across it. Along this path we took ourway. A strong breeze had risen and was swishing our waterproofs (p. 143)about our bodies; the darkness was intense, I had to strain my eyes tosee the man in front, Stoner. In the darkness he was a nebulous darkbulk that sprang into bold relief when the starlights flared in front. When the flare died out we stumbled forward into pitch dark nothingness. The pathway was barely two feet across, a mere tight-rope in the widewaste, and on either side nothing stood out to give relief to thedesolate scene; over us the clouds hung low, shapeless and gloomy, behind was the darkness, in front when the starlights made thedarkness visible they only increased the sense of solitude. 

We stumbled and fell, rose and fell again, our capes spreading outlike wings and our rifles falling in the mud. The sight of a man orwoman falling always makes me laugh. I laughed as I fell, as Stonerfell, as Mervin, Goliath, Bill, or Pryor fell. Sometimes we fellsingly, again in pairs, often we fell together a heap of rifles, khaki, and waterproof capes. We rose grumbling, spitting mud andlaughing. Stoner was very unfortunate, a particle of dirt got into hiseye almost blinding him. Afterwards he crawled along, now and againgetting to his feet, merely to fall back into his earthy position. (p. 144)A rifle fire opened on us from the front, and bullets whizzed past ourears, voices mingled with the ting of searching bullets. 

"Anybody hurt?"

"No, all right so far. "

"Stoner's down. "

"He's up again. "

"Blimey, it's a balmy. "

"Mervin's crawling on his hands and knees. "

"Nark the doin's, ye're on my waterproof. Let go!"

"Goliath's down. "

"Are you struck, Goliath?"

"No, I wish to heaven I was, " muttered the giant, bulking up in theflare of a searchlight, blood dripping from his face showed where hehad been scratched as he stumbled. 

We got safely into the trench and relieved the Highland Light Infantry. The place was very quiet, they assured us, it is always the same. Ithas become trench etiquette to tell the relieving battalion that it istaking over a cushy position. By this trench next morning we found sixnewly made graves, telling how six Highlanders had met their death, killed in action. 

Next morning as I was looking through a periscope at the enemy's (p. 145)trenches, and wondering what was happening behind their sandbag line, a man from the sanitary squad came along sprinkling the trench withcreosote and chloride of lime. 

"Seein' anything?" he asked. 

"Not much, " I answered, "the grass is so high in front that I can seenothing but the tips of the enemy's parapets. There's some work foryou here, " I said. 

"Where?"

"Under your feet, " I told him. "The floor is soft as putty and smellsvilely. Perhaps there is a dead man there. Last night I slept by thespot and it turned me sick. "

"Have you an entrenchin' tool?"

I handed him the implement, he dug into the ground and presentlyunearthed a particle of clothing, five minutes later a boot came toview, then a second; fifteen minutes assiduous labour revealed anevil-smelling bundle of clothing and decaying flesh. I still remainedan onlooker, but changed my position on the banquette. 

"He must have been dead a long time, " said the sanitary man, as he (p. 146)flung handfuls of lime on the body, "see his face. "

He turned the thing on its back, its face up to the sky. The featureswere wonderfully well-preserved; the man might have fallen the daybefore. The nose pinched and thin, turned up a little at the point, the lips were drawn tight round the gums, the teeth showed dog-likeand vicious; the eyes were open and raised towards the forehead, andthe whole face was splashed with clotted blood. A wound could be seenon the left temple, the fatal bullet had gone through there. 

"He was killed in the winter, " said the sanitary man, pointing at thegloves on the dead soldier's hands. "These trenches were the'Allemands' then, and the boys charged 'em. I suppose this fellercopped a packet and dropped into the mud and was tramped down. "

"Who is he?" I asked. 

The man with the chloride of lime opened the tunic and shirt of thedead man and brought out an identity disc. 

"Irish, " he said, "Munster Fusiliers. " "What's this?" he asked, takinga string of beads with a little shiny crucifix on the end of it, fromthe dead man's neck. 

"It's his rosary, " I said, and my mind saw in a vivid picture a (p. 147)barefooted boy going over the hills of Corrymeela to morning Mass, with his beads in his hand. On either side rose the thatched cabins ofthe peasantry, the peat smoke curling from the chimneys, the littleboreens running through the bushes, the brown Irish bogs, the heatherin blossom, the turf stacks, the laughing colleens. .. . 

"Here's a letter, " said the sanitary man, "it was posted lastChristmas. It's from a girl, too. "

He commenced reading:--

"My dear Patrick, --I got your letter yesterday, and whenever I was mylone the day I was always reading it. I wish the black war was overand you back again--we all at home wish that, and I suppose yourselfwishes it as well; I was up at your house last night; there's not muchfun in it now. I read the papers to your mother, and me and her waslooking at a map. But we didn't know where you were so we could onlymake guesses. Your mother and me is making the Rounds of the Cross foryou, and I am always thinking of you in my prayers. You'll be havingthe parcel I sent before you get this letter. I hope it's not brokenor lost. The socks I sent were knitted by myself, three pairs of (p. 148)them, and I've put the holy water on them. Don't forget to put them onwhen your feet get wet, at home you never used to bother aboutanything like that; just tear about the same in wet as dry. But you'lltake care of yourself now, won't you: and not get killed? It'll be agrand day when you come back, and God send the day to come soon! Senda letter as often as you can, I myself will write you one every day, and I'll pray to the Holy Mother to take care of you. "

We buried him behind the parados, and placed the rosary round the armsof the cross which was erected over him. On the following day one ofour men went out to see the grave, and while stooping to place someflowers on it he got shot through the head. That evening he was buriedbeside the Munster Fusilier. 

CHAPTER XII (p. 149)

THE SHELLING OF THE KEEP

 A brazier fire at twilight, And glow-worm fires ashine, A searchlight sweeping heaven, Above the firing-line. The rifle bullet whistles The message that it brings Of death and desolation To common folk and kings. 

We went back from the trenches as reserves to the Keep. Broken downthough the place was when we entered it there was something restful inthe brown bricks, hidden in ivy, in the well-paved yard, and theglorious riot of flowers. Most of the original furniture remained--thebeds, the chairs, and the pictures. All were delighted with the place, Mervin particularly. "I'll make my country residence here after thewar, " he said. 

On the left was a church. Contrary to orders I spent an hour in thedusk of the first evening in the ruined pile. The place had beenshelled for seven months, not a day had passed when it was not (p. 150)struck in some part. The sacristy was a jumble of prayer books, vestments, broken rosaries, crucifixes, and pictures. An ink pot andpen lay on a broken table beside a blotting pad. A lamp which oncehung from the roof was beside them, smashed to atoms. In the churchthe altar railing was twisted into shapeless bars of iron, brickslittered the altar steps, the altar itself even, and bricks, tiles, and beams were piled high in the body of the church. 

Outside in the graveyard the graves lay open and the bones of the deadwere scattered broadcast over the green grass. Crosses were smashed orwrenched out of the ground and flung to earth; near the Keep was thesoldiers' cemetery, the resting place of French, English, Indian, andGerman soldiers. Many of the French had bottles of holy water placedon their graves under the crosses. The English epitaphs were short andconcise, always the same in manner: "Private 999 J. Smith, 26th LondonBattalion, killed in action 1st March, 1915. " And under it stamped ona bronze plate was the information, "Erected by the Mobile Unit(B. R. C. S. ) to preserve the record found on the spot. " Often the deadman's regiment left a token of remembrance, a bunch of flowers, thedead man's cap or bayonet and rifle (these two latter only if (p. 151)they had been badly damaged when the man died). Many crosses had beentaken from the churchyard and placed over these men. One of them read, "A notre dévote fille, " and another, "To my beloved mother. "

Several Indians, men of the Bengal Mountain Battery, were buried here. A woman it was stated, had disclosed their location to the enemy, andthe billet in which they were staying was struck fair by a highexplosive shell. Thirty-one were killed. They were now atrest--Anaytullah, Lakhasingh, and other strange men with queer namesunder the crosses fashioned from biscuit boxes. On the back ofAnaytullah's cross was the wording in black: "Biscuits, 50 lbs. "

Thus the environment of the Keep: the enemy's trenches were abouteight hundred yards away. No fighting took place here, the men'srifles stood loaded, but no shot was fired; only when the front linewas broken, if that ever took place, would the defenders of the Keepcome into play and hold the enemy back as long as that were possible. Then when they could no longer hold out, when the foe pressed in (p. 152)on all sides, there was something still to do, something vitallyimportant which would cost the enemy many lives, and, if a miracle didnot happen, something which would wipe out the defenders for ever. This was the Keep. 

The evening was very quiet; a few shells flew wide overhead, and nowand again stray bullets pattered against the masonry. We cooked ourfood in the yard, and, sitting down amidst the flowers, we drank ourtea and ate our bread and jam. The first flies were busy, they flewamidst the flower-beds and settled on our jam. Mervin told a story ofa country where he had been in, and where the flies were legion andate the eyes out of horses. The natives there wore corks hung bystrings from their caps, and these kept the flies away. 

"How?" asked Bill. 

"The corks kept swinging backwards and forwards as the men walked, "said Mervin. "Whenever a cork struck a fly it dashed the insect'sbrains out. "

"Blimey!" cried Bill, then asked, "What was the most wonderful thingyou ever seen, Mervin?"

"The most wonderful thing, " repeated Mervin. "Oh, I'll tell you. Itwas the way they buried the dead out in Klondike. The snow lies (p. 153)there for six months and it's impossible to dig, so when a man diedthey sharpened his toes and drove him into the earth with a mallet. "

"I saw a more wonderful thing than that, and it was when we lay in thebarn at Richebourg, " said Bill, who was referring to a comfortlessbillet and a cold night which were ours a month earlier. "I woke upabout midnight 'arf asleep. I 'ad my boots off and I couldn't 'ardlyfeel them I was so cold. 'Blimey!' I said, 'on goes my understandin's, and I 'ad a devil of a job lacing my boots up. When I thought I 'adthem on I could 'ear someone stirrin' on the left. It was my cotmate. 'Wot's yer gime?' he says. 'Wot gime?' I asks. 'Yer foolin' aboutwith my tootsies, ' he says. Then after a minute 'e shouts, 'Damn itye've put on my boots, ' So I 'ad, put on his blessed boots and lacedthem mistaking 'is feet for my own. "

"We never heard of this before, " I said. 

"No, cos 'twas ole Jersey as was lying aside me that night, next day'e was almost done in with the bomb. "

"It's jolly quiet here, " said Goliath, sitting back in an armchair andlighting a cigarette. "This will be a jolly holiday. "

"I heard an artillery man I met outside, say that this place was (p. 154)hot, " Stoner remarked. "The Irish Guards were here, and they said theypreferred the trenches to the Keep. "

"It will be a poor country house, " said Mervin, "if it's going to beas bad as you say. "

On the following evening I was standing guard in a niche in thebuilding. Darkness was falling and the shadows sat at the base of thewalls east of the courtyard. My niche looked out on the road, alongwhich the wounded are carried from the trenches by night and sometimesby day. The way is by no means safe. As I stood there four men camedown the road carrying a limp form on a stretcher. A waterproofground-sheet lay over the wounded soldier, his head was uncovered, andit wobbled from side to side, a streak of blood ran down his face andformed into clots on the ear and chin. There was something uncannilyhelpless in the soldier, his shaking head, his boots caked brown withmud, the heels close together, the toes pointing upwards and outwardsand swaying a little. Every quiver of the body betokened abjecthelplessness. The limp, swaying figure, clinging weakly to life, was apathetic sight. 

The bearers walked slowly, carefully, stepping over every (p. 155)shell-hole and stone on the road. The sweat rolled down their facesand arms, their coats were off and their shirt sleeves rolled upalmost to the shoulders. Down the road towards the village theypursued their sober way, and my eyes followed them. Suddenly they cameto a pause, lowered the stretcher to the ground, and two of them bentover the prostrate form. I could see them feel the soldier's pulse, open his tunic, and listen for the beating of the man's heart, whenthey raised the stretcher again there was something cruelly carelessin the action, they brought it up with a jolt and set off hurriedly, stumbling over shell-hole and boulder. There was no doubt the man wasdead now; it was unwise to delay on the road, and the soldiers'cemetery was in the village. 

In the evening we stood to arms in the Keep; all our men were now outin the open, and the officers were inspecting their rifles barely fouryards away from me. At that moment I saw the moon, a crescent of palesmoke standing on end near the West. I felt in my pocket for money, but found I had none to turn. 

"Have you a ha'penny?" I asked Mervin who was passing. 

"What for?" (p. 156)

"I want to turn it, you know the old custom. "

"Oh, yes, " answered Mervin, handing me a coin. "Long ago I used toturn my money, but I found the oftener I saw the moon the less I hadto turn. However, I'll try it again for luck. " So saying he turned apenny. 

"Do any of you fellows know Marie Redoubt?" an officer asked at thatmoment. 

"I know the place, " said Mervin, "it's just behind the Keep. "

"Will you lead me to the place?" said the officer. 

"Right, " said Mervin, and the two men went off. 

They had just gone when a shell hit the building on my left barelythree yards away from my head. The explosion almost deafened me, apain shot through my ears and eyes, and a shower of fine lime andcrumpled bricks whizzed by my face. My first thought was, "Why did Inot put my hands over my eyes, I might have been struck blind. " I hada clear view of the scene in front, my mates were rushing hither andthither in a shower of white flying lime; I could see dark formsfalling, clambering to their feet and falling again. One figuredetached itself from the rest and came rushing towards me, by my (p. 157)side it tripped and fell, then rose again. I could now see it wasStoner. He put his hands up as if in protest, looked at me vacantly, and rushed round the corner of the building. I followed him and foundhim once more on the ground. 

"Much hurt?" I asked, touching him on the shoulder. 

"Yes, " he muttered, rising slowly, "I got it there, " he raised afinger to his face which was bleeding, "and there, " he put his handacross his chest. 

"Well, get into the dug-out, " I said, and we hurried round the frontof the building. A pile of fallen masonry lay there and half a dozenrifles, all the men were gone. We found them in the dug-out, a holeunder the floor heavily beamed, and strong enough to withstand a fairsized shell. One or two were unconscious and all were bleeding more orless severely. I found I was the only person who was not struck. Goliath and Bill got little particles of grit in the face, and theylooked black as chimney sweeps. Bill was cut across the hand, Kore'sarm was bleeding. 

"Where's Mervin?"

"He had just gone out, " I said, "I was speaking to him, he went (p. 158)with Lieut. ---- to Marie Redoubt. "

I suddenly recollected that I should not have left my place outside, so I went into my niche again. Had Mervin got clear, I wondered? Thecourtyard was deserted, and it was rapidly growing darker, a drizzlehad begun, and the wet ran down my rifle. 

"Any word of Mervin?" I called to Stoner when he came out from thedug-out, and moved cautiously across the yard. There was a certainunsteadiness in his gait, but he was regaining his nerve; he hadreally been more surprised than hurt. He disappeared without answeringmy question, probably he had not heard me. 

"Stretcher-bearers at the double. "

The cry, that call of broken life which I have so often heard, faltered across the yard. From somewhere two men rushed out carrying astretcher, and hurried off in the direction taken by Stoner. Who hadbeen struck? Somebody had been wounded, maybe killed! Was it Mervin?

Stoner came round the corner, a sad look in his brown eyes. 

"Mervin's copped it, " he said, "in the head. It must have been (p. 159)that shell that done it; a splinter, perhaps. "

"Where is he?"

"He's gone away on the stretcher unconscious. The officer has beenwounded as well in the leg, the neck, and the face. "

"Badly?"

"No, he's able to speak. "

Fifteen minutes later I saw Mervin again. He was lying on thestretcher and the bearers were just going off to the dressing stationwith it. He was breathing heavily, round his head was a white bandage, and his hands stretched out stiffly by his sides. He was borne intothe trench and carried round the first traverse. I never saw himagain; he died two days later without regaining consciousness. 

On the following day two more men went: one got hit by a concussionshell that ripped his stomach open, another, who was on sentry-go gotmessed up in a bomb explosion that blew half of his side away. Thecharm of the courtyard, with the flower-beds and floral designs, diedaway; we were now pleased to keep indoors and allow the chairs outsideto stand idle. All day long the enemy shelled us, most of the shellsdropped outside and played havoc with the church; but the figure (p. 160)on the crucifix still remained, a symbol of something great andtragical, overlooking the area of destruction and death. Now and againa shell dropped on the flower-beds and scattered splinters and showersof earth against buildings and dug-outs. In the evening an orderlycame to the Keep. 

"I want two volunteers, " he said. 

"For what?" I asked him. 

"I don't know, " was the answer, "they've got to report immediately toHeadquarters. "

Stoner and I volunteered. The Headquarters, a large dug-out roofedwith many sandbags piled high over heavy wooden beams, was situated onthe fringe of the communication trench five hundred yards away fromthe Keep. We took up our post in an adjacent dug-out and waited fororders. Over our roof the German shells whizzed incessantly and toreup the brick path. Suddenly we heard a crash, an ear-splittingexplosion from the fire line. 

"What's that?" asked Stoner. "Will it be a mine blown up?"

"Perhaps it is, " I ventured. "I wish they'd stop the shelling, supposeone of these shells hit our dug-out. "

"It would be all U. P. With us, " said Stoner, trying to roll a (p. 161)cigarette and failing hopelessly. "Confound it, " he said, "I'm all abunch of nerves, I didn't sleep last night and very little the nightbefore. "

His eyebrows were drawn tight together and wrinkles were formingbetween his eyes; the old sparkle was almost entirely gone from them. 

"Mervin, " he said, "and the other two, the bloke with his side blownaway. It's terrible. "

"Try and have a sleep, " I said, "nobody seems to need us yet. "

He lay down on the empty sandbags which littered the floor, andpresently he was asleep. I tried to read Montaigne, but could not, thewords seemed to be running up and down over the page; the firingseemed to have doubled in intensity, and the shells swept low almosttouching the roof of the dug-out. 

"Orderly!"

I stumbled out into the open, and a sharp penetrating rain, and mademy way to the Headquarters. The adjutant was inside at the telephonespeaking to the firing line. 

"Hello! that the Irish?" he said. "Anything to report? The mine has doneno damage? No, fifteen yards back, lucky! Only three casualties (p. 162)so far. "

The adjutant turned to an orderly officer: "The mine exploded fifteenyards in front, three wounded. Are you the orderly?" he asked, turningto me. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Find out where the sergeant-major is and ask him if to-morrow'srations have come in yet. "

"Where is the sergeant-major?" I asked. 

"I'm not sure where he stays, " said the adjutant. "Enquire at theKeep. "

The trench was wet and slobbery, every hole was a pitfall to trap theunwary; boulders and sandbags which had fallen in waited to trip thecareless foot. I met a party of soldiers, a corporal at their head. 

"This the way to the firing line?" he asked. 

"You're coming from it!" I told him. 

"That's done it!" he muttered. "We've gone astray, there's some fun upthere!"

"A mine blown up?" I asked. 

"'Twas a blow up, " was the answer. "It almost deafened us, someonemust have copped it. What's the way back?"

"Go past Gunner Siding and Marie Redoubt, then touch left and (p. 163)you'll get through. "

"God! it's some rain, " he said. "Ta, ta. "

"Ta, ta, old man. "

I turned into the trench leading to the Keep. The rain was peltingwith a merciless vigour, and loose earth was falling from the sides tothe floor of the trench. A star-light flared up and threw a brilliantlight on the entrance of the Keep as I came up. The place bristledwith brilliant steel, half a dozen men stood there with fixedbayonets, the water dripping from their caps on to their equipment. 

"Halt! who goes there!" Pryor yelled out, raising his bayonet to the"on guard" position. 

"A friend, " I replied. "What's wrong here?"

"Oh, it's Pat, " Pryor answered. "Did you not hear it?" he continued, "the Germans have broken through and there'll be fun. The whole Keepis manned ready. "

"Is the pantomime parapet manned?" I asked. I alluded to the flat roofof the stable in which our Section slept. It had been damaged by shellfire, and was holed in several places, a sandbag parapet with (p. 164)loop-holes opened out on the enemy's front. 

"Kore, Bill, Goliath, they're all up there, " said Pryor, "and theplace is getting shelled too, in the last five minutes twenty shellshave missed the place, just missed it. "

"Where does the sergeant-major stick?" I asked. 

"Oh, I don't know, not here I think. "

The courtyard was tense with excitement. Half a dozen new soldierswere called to take up posts on the parapet, and they were rushing tothe crazy stairs which led to the roof. On their way they overturned abrazier and showers of fine sparks rioted into the air. By the flareit was possible to see the rain falling slanting to the ground in finelines that glistened in the flickering light. Shells were burstingoverhead, flashing out into spiteful red and white stars of flame, andhurling their bullets to the ground beneath. Shell splinters flew overthe courtyard humming like bees and seeming to fall everywhere. What amiracle that anybody could escape them!

I met our platoon sergeant at the foot of the stairs. 

"Where does the sergeant-major hold out?"

"Down at Givenchy somewhere, " he told me. "The Germans have broken (p. 165)through, " he said. "It looks as if we're in for a rough night. "

"It will be interesting, " I replied, "I haven't seen a German yet. "

Over the parapet a round head, black amidst a line of bayonetsappeared, and a voice called down, "Sergeant!"

"Right oh!" said the sergeant, and rushed upstairs. At that moment ashell struck a wall at the back somewhere, and pieces of brick whizzedinto the courtyard and clattered down the stair. When the row subsidedKore was helped down, his face bleeding and an ugly gash showing abovehis left eye. 

"Much hurt, old man?" I asked. 

"Not a blighty, I'm afraid, " he answered. 

A "blighty" is a much desired wound; one that sends a soldier back toEngland. A man with a "blighty" is a much envied person. Kore wasfollowed by another fellow struck in the leg, and drawing himselfwearily along. He assured us that he wasn't hurt much, but now andagain he groaned with pain. 

"Get into the dug-outs, " the sergeant told them. "In the morning youcan go to the village, to-night it's too dangerous. "

About midnight I went out on the brick pathway, the way we had (p. 166)come up a few nights earlier. I should have taken Stoner with me, buthe slept and I did not like to waken him. The enemy's shells wereflying overhead, one following fast on another, all bursting in thebrick path and the village. I could see the bright hard light ofshrapnel shells exploding in the air, and the signal-red flash ofconcussion shells bursting ahead. Splinters flew back buzzing likeangry bees about my ears. I would have given a lot to be back withStoner in the dug-out; it was a good strong structure, shrapnel andbullet proof, only a concussion shell falling on top would work himany harm. 

The rain still fell and the moon--there was a bit of it somewhere--nevershowed itself through the close-packed clouds. For a while I struggledbravely to keep to the tight-rope path, but it was useless, I fellover first one side, then the other. Eventually I kept clear of it, and walked in the slush of the field. Half way along a newly dugtrench, some three feet in depth, ran across my road; an attack wasfeared at dawn, and a first line of reserves were in occupation. Istumbled upon the men. They were sitting well down, their heads lowerthan the parapet, and all seemed to be smoking if I could form (p. 167)judgment by the line of little glow-worm fires, the lighted cigaretteends that extended out on either hand. Somebody was humming a music-hallsong, while two or three of his mates helped him with the chorus. 

"Halt! who goes there?"

The challenge was almost a whisper, and a bayonet slid out from thetrench and paused irresolutely near my stomach. 

"A London Irish orderly going down to the village, " I answered. 

A voice other than that which challenged me spoke: "Why are you alone, there should be two. "

"I wasn't aware of that. "

"Pass on, " said the second voice, "and be careful, it's not altogetherhealthy about here. "

Somewhere in the proximity of the village I lost the brick path andcould not find it again. For a full hour I wandered over the soddenfields under shell fire, discovering the village, a bulk of shadowsthinning into a jagged line of chimneys against the black sky when theshells exploded, and losing it again when the darkness settled downaround me. Eventually I stumbled across the road and breathed freelyfor a second. 

But the enemy's fire would not allow me a very long breathing (p. 168)space, it seemed bent on battering the village to pieces. In front ofme ran a broken-down wall, behind it were a number of houses and not alight showing. The road was deserted. 

A shell exploded in mid-air straight above, and bullets sang down andshot into the ground round me. Following it came the casing splintershumming like bees, then a second explosion, the whizzing bullets andthe bees, another explosion. .. . 

"Come along and get out of it, " I whispered to myself, and lookedalong the road; a little distance off I fancied I saw a block ofbuildings. 

"Run!"

I ran, "stampeded!" is a better word, and presently found myselfopposite an open door. I flung myself in, tripped, and went prostrateto the floor. 

Boom! I almost chuckled, thinking myself secure from the shells thatburst overhead. It was only when the bees bounced on the floor that Ilooked up to discover that the house was roofless. 

I made certain that the next building had a roof before I entered. Italso had a door, this I shoved open and found myself amongst a (p. 169)number of horses and warm penetrating odour of dung. 

"Now, 3008, you may smoke, " I said, addressing myself, and drew out mycigarette case. My matches were quite dry; I lit one and was justputting it to my cigarette when one of the horses began prancing atthe other end of the building. I just had a view of the animal comingtowards me when the match went out and left me in the total darkness. I did not like the look of the horse, and I wished that it had beenbetter bound when its master left it. It was coming nearer and nowpawing the floor with its hoof. I edged closer to the door; if it werenot for the shells I would go outside. Why was that horse allowed toremain loose in the stable? I tried to light another match, but itsnapped in my fingers. The horse was very near me now; I could feelits presence, it made no noise, it seemed to be shod with velvet. Themoment was tense, I shouted: "Whoa there, whoa!"

It shot out its hind legs and a pair of hoofs clattered on the wallbeside me. 

"Whoa, there! whoa there! confound you!" I growled, and was outside ina twinkling and into the arms of a transport sergeant. 

"What the devil--'oo are yer?" he blurted out. (p. 170)

"Did you think I was a shell?" I couldn't help asking. "I'm sorry, " Icontinued, "I came in here out of that beastly shelling. "

"Very wise, " said the sergeant, getting quickly into the stable. 

"One of your horses is loose, " I said. "Do you know where the LondonIrish is put up here?"

"Down the road on the right, " he told me, "you come to a large gatethere on the left and you cross a garden. It's a big buildin'. "

"Thank you. Good night. "

"Good night, sonny. "

I went in by the wrong gate; there were so many on the left, and foundmyself in a dark spinney where the rain was dripping heavily from thebranches of the trees. I was just on the point of turning back to theroad when one of our batteries concealed in the place opened fire, anda perfect hell of flame burst out around me. I flopped to earth withgraceless precipitancy, and wallowed in mud. "It's all up 3008, you'vedone it now, " I muttered, and wondered vaguely whether I was partly orwholly dead. The sharp smell of cordite filled the air and caused (p. 171)a tickling sensation in my throat that almost choked me. When Iscrambled to my feet again and found myself uninjured, a strangedexterity had entered my legs; I was outside the gate in the space ofa second. 

Ten minutes later I found the sergeant-major, who rose from a blanketon the ground-floor of a pretentious villa with a shell splintereddoor, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The rations had not arrived;they would probably be in by dawn. Had I seen the mine explode? Ibelonged to the company holding the Keep, did I not? The rumour aboutthe Germans breaking through was a cock-and-bull story. Had I anycigarettes? Turkish! Not bad for a change. Good luck, sonny! Take careof yourself going back. 

I came in line with the rear trench on my way back. 

"Who's there?" came a voice from the line of little cigarette lights. 

"A London Irish orderly--going home!" I answered, and a laugh rewardedmy ironical humour. 

"Jolly luck to be able to return home, " I said to myself when I gotpast. "3008, you weren't very brave to-night. By Jove, you did (p. 172)hop into that roofless house and scamper out of that spinney! In fact, you did not shine as a soldier at all. You've not been particularlyafraid of shell fire before, but to-night! Was it because you werealone you felt so very frightened? You've found out you've been posinga little before. Alone you're really a coward. "

I felt a strange delight in saying these things; the firing hadceased; it was still raining heavily. 

"Remember the bridge at Suicide Corner, " I said, alluding to a recentincident when I had walked upright across a bridge, exposed to theenemy's rifle fire. My mates hurried across almost bent double whilstI sauntered slowly over in front of them. "You had somebody to look atyou then; 'twas vanity that did it, but to-night! You were afraid, terribly funky. If there had been somebody to look on, you'd have beendefiantly careless. It's rather nerve-racking to be shelled whenyou're out alone at midnight and nobody looking at you!"

Dawn was breaking when I found myself at the Keep. The place in somemanner fascinated me and I wanted to know what had happened there. (p. 173)I found that a few shells were still coming that way and most of theparty were in their dug-outs. I peered down the one which was under myold sleeping place; at present all stayed in their dug-outs when offduty. They were ordered to do so, but none of the party were sleepingnow, the night had been too exciting. 

"'Oo's there?" Bill called up out of the darkness, and when I spoke hemuttered:

"Oh, it's ole Pat! Where were yer?"

"I've been out for a walk, " I replied. 

"When that shellin' was goin' on?"

"Yes. "

"You're a cool beggar, you are!" said Bill. "I was warm here I tellyer!"

"Have the Germans come this way?" I asked. 

"Germans!" ejaculated Bill. "They come 'ere and me with ten rounds inthe magazine and one in the breech! They knows better!"

Stoner was awake when I returned to the dug-out by Headquarters. 

"Up already?" I asked. 

"Up! I've been up almost since you went away, " he answered. "My! theshells didn't half fly over here. And I thought you'd never get (p. 174)back. "

"That's due to lack of imagination, " I told him. "What's forbreakfast?"

CHAPTER XIII (p. 175)

A NIGHT OF HORROR

 'Tis only a dream in the trenches, Told when the shadows creep, Over the friendly sandbags When men in the dug-outs sleep. This is the tale of the trenches Told when the shadows fall, By little Hughie of Dooran, Over from Donegal. 

On the noon following the journey to the village I was sent back tothe Keep; that night our company went into the firing trench again. Wewere all pleased to get there; any place was preferable to the blockof buildings in which we had lost so many of our boys. On the nightafter our departure, two Engineers who were working at the Keep couldnot find sleeping place in the dug-outs, and they slept on the spotwhere I made my bed the first night I was there. In the early morninga shell struck the wall behind them and the poor fellows were blown toatoms. 

For three days we stayed in the trenches, narrow, suffocating and dampplaces, where parados and parapet almost touched and where it was (p. 176)well-nigh impossible for two men to pass. Food was not plentiful here, all the time we lived on bully beef and biscuits; our tea ran shortand on the second day we had to drink water at our meals. From ourbanquette it was almost impossible to see the enemy's position; thegrowing grass well nigh hid their lines; occasionally by standingtiptoed on the banquette we could catch a glimpse of white sandbagslooking for all the world like linen spread out to dry on the grass. But the Germans did not forget that we were near, pipsqueaks, riflegrenades, bombs and bullets came our way with aggravating persistence. It was believed that the Prussians, spiteful beggars that they are, occupied the position opposite. In these trenches the dug-outs werefew and far between; we slept very little. 

On the second night I was standing sentry on the banquette. My watchextended from twelve to one, the hour when the air is raw and thesmell of the battle line is penetrating. The night was pitch black; inponds and stagnant streams in the vicinity frogs were chuckling. Theirhoarse clucking could be heard all round; when the star-shells flew upI could catch vague glimpses of the enemy's sandbags and the line (p. 177)of tall shrapnel-swept trees which ran in front of his trenches. Thesleep was heavy in my eyes; time and again I dozed off for a secondonly to wake up as a shell burst in front or swept by my head. Itseemed impossible to remain awake, often I jumped down to the floor ofthe trench, raced along for a few yards, then back to the banquetteand up to the post beside my bayonet. 

One moment of quiet and I dropped into a light sleep. I punched myhands against the sandbags until they bled; the whizz of the shellspassed like ghosts above me; slumber sought me and strove to hold mecaptive. I had dreams; a village standing on a hill behind theopposite trench became peopled; it was summer and the work of hayingand harvesting went on. The men went out to the meadows withlong-handled scythes and mowed the grass down in great swathes. Iwalked along a lane leading to the field and stopped at the stile andlooked in. A tall youth who seemed strangely familiar was mowing. Thesweat streamed down his face and bare chest. His shirt was foldedneatly back and his sleeves were thrust up almost to the shoulders. 

The work did not come easy to him; he always followed the first (p. 178)sweep of the scythe with a second which cropped the grass very closeto the ground. For an expert mower the second stroke is unnecessary;the youngster had not learned to put a keen edge on the blade. Iwanted to explain to him the best way to use the sharping stone, but Ifelt powerless to move: I could only remain at the stile looking on. Sometimes he raised his head and looked in my direction, but took nonotice of me. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? I called out tohim but he took no notice. I tried to change my position, succeededand crossed the stile. When I came close to him, he spoke. 

"You were long in coming, " he said, and I saw it was my brother, ayoungster of eighteen. 

"I went to the well for a jug of water, " I said, "But it's dry now andthe three trout are dead at the bottom. "

"'Twas because we didn't put a cross of green rushes over it lastCandlemas Eve, " he remarked. "You should have made one then, but youdidn't. Can you put an edge on the scythe?" he asked. 

"I used to be able before--before the--" I stopped feeling that I hadforgotten some event. 

"I don't know why, but I feel strange, " I said, "When did you come (p. 179)to this village?"

"Village?"

"That one up there. " I looked in the direction where the village stooda moment before, but every red-brick house with its roof ofterra-cotta tiles had vanished. I was gazing along my own glen inDonegal with its quiet fields, its sunny braes, steep hills and whitelime-washed cottages, snug under their neat layers of straw. 

The white road ran, almost parallel with the sparkling river, througha wealth of emerald green bottom lands. How came I to be here? Iturned to my brother to ask him something, but I could not speak. 

A funeral came along the road; four men carried a black coffinshoulder high; they seemed to be in great difficulties with theirburden. They stumbled and almost fell at every step. A man carryinghis coat and hat in one hand walked in front, and he seemed to beexhorting those who followed to quicken their pace. I sympathised withthe man in front. Why did the men under the coffin walk so slowly? Itwas a ridiculous way to carry a coffin, on the shoulders. Why did theynot use a stretcher? It would be the proper thing to do. I turned (p. 180)to my brother. 

"They should have stretchers, I told him. "

"Stretchers?"

"And stretcher-bearers. "

"Stretcher-bearers at the double!" he snapped and vanished. I flashedback into reality again; the sentinel on the left was leaning towardsme; I could see his face, white under the Balaclava helmet. There wasimpatience in his voice when he spoke. 

"Do you hear the message?" he called. 

"Right!" I answered and leant towards the man on my right. I could seehis dark, round head, dimly outlined above the parapet. 

"Stretcher bearers at the double!" I called. "Pass it along. "

From mouth to mouth it went along the living wire; that ominous callwhich tells of broken life and the tragedy of war. Nothing is so poignantin the watches of the night as the call for stretcher-bearers; thereis a thrill in the message swept from sentinel to sentinel along theline of sandbags, telling as it does, of some poor soul stricken downwrithing in agony on the floor of the trenches. 

For a moment I remained awake; then phantoms rioted before my (p. 181)eyes; the trees out by the German lines became ghouls. They heldtheir heads together in consultation and I knew they were plottingsome evil towards me. What were they going to do? They moved, long, gaunt, crooked figures dressed in black, and approached me. I feltfrightened but my fright was mixed with curiosity. Would they speak?What would they say? I knew I had wronged them in some way or another;when and how I did not remember. They came near. I could see they woreblack masks over their faces and their figures grew in size almostreaching the stars. And as they grew, their width diminished; theybecame mere strands reaching form earth to heaven. I rubbed my eyes, to find myself gazing at the long, fine grasses that grew up from thereverse slope of the parapet. 

I leant back from the banquette across the narrow trench and rested myhead on the parados. I could just rest for a moment, one moment thenget up again. The ghouls took shape far out in front now, and careeredalong the top of the German trench, great gaunt shadows that raced asif pursued by a violent wind. Why did they run so quickly? Were theyafraid of something? They ran in such a ridiculous way that I (p. 182)could not help laughing. They were making way, that was it. They hadto make way. Why?

"Make way!"

Two stretcher-bearers stood on my right; in front of them a sergeant. 

"Make way, you're asleep, " he said. 

"I'm not, " I replied, coming to an erect position. 

"Well, you shouldn't remain like that, if you don't want to get yourhead blown off. "

My next sentry hour began at nine in the morning; I was standing onthe banquette when I heard Bill speaking. He was just returning with ajar of water drawn from a pump at the rear, and he stopped for amoment in front of Spud Higgles, one of No. 4's boys. 

"Mornin'! How's yer hoppin' it?" said Spud. 

"Top over toe!" answered Bill. "Ow's you?"

"Up to the pink. Any news?"

"Yer 'aven't 'eard it?"

"What?"

"The Brigadier's copped it this mornin'. "

"Oo?"

"Our Brigadier. " (p. 183)

"Git!"

"'S truth!"

"Strike me pink!" said Spud. "'Ow?"

"A stray bullet. "

"Stone me ginger! but one would say he'd a safe job. "

"The bullet 'ad 'is number!"

"So, he's gone west!"

"He's gone west!"

Bill's information was quite true. Our Brigadier while making a tourof inspection of the trenches, turned to the orderly officer and said:"I believe I am hit, here. " He put his hand on his left knee. 

His trousers were cut away but no wound was visible. An examinationwas made on his body and a little clot of blood was found over thegroin on the right. A bullet had entered there and remained in thebody. Twenty minutes later the Brigadier was dead. 

Rations were short for breakfast, dinner did not arrive, we had no teabut all the men were quite cheerful for it was rumoured that we weregoing back to our billets at four o'clock in the afternoon. About thathour we were relieved by another battalion, and we marched back (p. 184)through the communication trench, past Marie Redoubt, Gunner Siding, the Keep and into a trench that circled along the top of the BrickPath. This was not the way out; why had we come here? had the officerin front taken the wrong turning? Our billet there was such a mustyold barn with straw littered on the floor and such a quaint old farmhousewhere they sold newly laid eggs, fresh butter, fried potatoes, anddelightful salad! We loved the place, the sleepy barges that glidedalong the canal where we loved to bathe, the children at play; theorange girls who sold fruit from large wicker baskets and begged ourtunic buttons and hat-badges for souvenirs. We wanted so much to goback that evening! Why had they kept us waiting?

"'Eard that?" Bill said to me. "Two London battalions are goin' tocharge to-night. They're passing up the trench and we're in 'ere tolet them get by. "

"About turn!"

We stumbled back again into the communication trench and turned to theleft, to go out we should have gone to the right. What was happening?Were we going back again? No dinner, no tea, no rations and sleeplessnights. .. . The barn at our billet with the cobwebs on the rafters (p. 185). .. The salad and soup. .. . We weren't going out that night. 

We halted in a deep narrow trench between Gunner Siding and MarieRedoubt, two hundred yards back from the firing trench. Our officerread out orders. 

"The ---- Brigade is going to make an attack on the enemy's positionat 6. 30 this evening. Our battalion is to take part in the attack bysupporting with rifle fire. "

Two of our companies were in the firing line; one was in support andwe were reserves; we had to remain in the trench packed up likeherrings, and await further instructions. The enemy knew thecommunication trench; they had got the range months before and at onetime the trench was occupied by them. 

We got into the trench at the time when the attack took place; ourartillery was now silent and rapid rifle fire went on in front; a lifeand death struggle was in progress there. In our trench it was veryquiet, we were packed tight as the queue at the gallery door of acheap music-hall on a Saturday night. 

"Blimey, a balmy this!" said Bill making frantic efforts to squash mytoes in his desire to find a fair resting place for his feet. (p. 186)"I'm 'ungry. Call this the best fed army in the world. Dog and maggotall the bloomin' time. I need all the hemery paper given to clean mybayonet, to sharpen my teeth to eat the stuff. How are we goin' tosleep this night, Pat?"

"Standing. "

"Like a blurry 'oss. But Stoner's all right, " said Bill. Stoner wasall right; somebody had dug a little burrow at the base of thetraverse and he was lying there already asleep. 

We stood in the trench till eight o'clock almost suffocated. It wasimpossible for the company to spread out, on the right we weretouching the supports, on the left was a communication trench leadingto the point of attack, and this was occupied by part of anotherbattalion. We were hemmed in on all sides, a compressed company infull marching order with many extra rounds of ammunition and emptystomachs. 

I was telling a story to the boys, one that Pryor and Goliath gavecredence to, but which the others refused to believe. It was a tale oftwo trench-mortars, squat little things that loiter about the firingline and look for all the world like toads ready to hop off. I came ontwo of these the night before, crept on them unawares and found (p. 187)them speaking to one another. 

"Nark it, Pat, " muttered Bill lighting a cigarette. "Them talking. Gitout!"

"Of course you don't understand, " I said. "The trench-mortar has asoul, a mind and great discrimination, " I told him. 

"What's a bomb?" asked Bill. 

"'Tis the soul finding expression. Last night they were speaking, as Ihave said. They had a wonderful plan in hand. They decided to stealaway and drink a bottle of wine in Givenchy. "

"Blimey!"

"They did not know the way out and at that moment up comes Wee HughieGallagher of Dooran; in his sea-green bonnet, his salmon-pink coat, and buff tint breeches and silver shoon and mounted one of thehowitzers and off they went as fast as the wind to the wineshop atGivenchy. "

"Oo's 'Ughie what dy'e call 'im of that place?"

"He used to be a goat-herd in Donegal once upon a time when cows werekine and eagles of the air built their nests in the beards of giants. "

"Wot!"

"I often met him there, going out to the pastures, with a herd of (p. 188)goats before him and a herd of goats behind him and a salmon tied tothe laces of his brogues for supper. "

"I wish we 'ad somethin' for supper, " said Bill. 

"Hold your tongue. He has lived for many thousands of years, has WeeHughie Gallagher of Dooran, " I said, "but he hasn't reached the firstyear of his old age yet. Long ago when there were kings galore inIreland, he went out to push his fortune about the season ofMichaelmas and the harvest moon. He came to Tirnan-Oge, the land ofPerpetual Youth which is flowing with milk and honey. "

"I wish this trench was!"

"Bill!"

"But you're balmy, chum, " said the Cockney, "'owitzers talkin' andthen this feller. Ye're pullin' my leg. "

"I'm afraid you're not intellectual enough to understand thepsychology of a trench-howitzer or the temperament of Wee HughieGallagher of Dooran, Bill. "

"'Ad 'e a finance?"[2]

 [Footnote 2: Fiancée. ]

"A what?" I asked. 

"Wot Goliath 'as, a girl at home. " (p. 189)

"That's it, is it? Why do you think of such a thing?"

"I was trying to write a letter to-day to St. Albans, " said Bill, andhis voice became low and confidential. "But you're no mate, " he added. "You were goin' to make some poetry and I haven't got it yet. "

"What kind of poetry do you want me to make?" I asked. 

"Yer know it yerself, somethin' nice like!"

"About the stars--"

"Star-shells if you like. "

"Shall I begin now? We can write it out later. "

"Righto!"

I plunged into impromptu verse. 

 I lie as still as a sandbag in my dug-out shrapnel proof, My candle shines in the corner, and the shadows dance on the roof, Far from the blood-stained trenches, and far from the scenes of war, My thoughts go back to a maiden, my own little guiding star. 

"That's 'ot stuff, " said Bill. 

I was on the point of starting a fresh verse when the low rumble of anapproaching shell was heard; a messenger of death from a great Germangun out at La Bassée. This gun was no stranger to us; he often (p. 190)played havoc with the Keep; it was he who blew in the wall a few nightsbefore and killed the two Engineers. The missile he flung moved slowlyand could not keep pace with its own sound. Five seconds before itarrived we could hear it coming, a slow, certain horror, sure of itsmission and steady to its purpose. The big gun at La Bassée wasshelling the communication trench, endeavouring to stop reinforcementsfrom getting up to the firing lines and the red field between. 

The shell burst about fifty yards away and threw a shower of dirt overus. There was a precipitate flop, a falling backwards and forwards andall became messed up in an intricate jumble of flesh, equipment, clothing and rifles in the bottom of the trench. A swarm of "bees"buzzed overhead, a few dropped into the trench and Pryor who grippedone with his hand swore under his breath. The splinter was almostred-hot. 

The trench was voluble. 

"I'm chokin'; get off me tummy. "

"Your boot's on my face. "

"Nobody struck?"

"Nobody. " (p. 191)

"Gawd! I hope they don't send many packets like that. "

"Spread out a little to the left, " came the order from an officer. "When you hear a shell coming lie flat. "

We got to our feet, all except Stoner, who was still asleep in hislair, and changed our positions, our ears alert for the arrival of thenext shell. The last bee had scarcely ceased to buzz when we heard thesecond projectile coming. 

"Another couple of steps. Hurry up. Down. " Again we threw ourselves ina heap; the shell burst and again we were covered with dust and muck. 

"Move on a bit. Quicker! The next will be here in a minute, " was thecry and we stumbled along the narrow alley hurriedly as if our livesdepended on the very quickness. When we came to a halt there was onlya space of two feet between each man. The trench was just wide enoughfor the body of one, and all set about to sort themselves in the bestpossible manner. A dozen shells now came our way in rapid succession. Some of the men went down on their knees and pressed their faces closeto the ground like Moslems at prayer. They looked for all the (p. 192)world like Moslems, as the pictures show them, prostrate in prayer. The posture reminded me of stories told of ostriches, birds I havenever seen, who bury their heads in the sand and consider themselvesfree from danger when the world is hidden from their eyes. 

Safety in that style did not appeal to me; I sat on the bottom of thetrench, head erect. If a splinter struck me it would wound me in theshoulders or the arms or knees. I bent low so that I might protect mystomach; I had seen men struck in that part of the body, the woundswere ghastly and led to torturing deaths. When a shell came near, Iput the balls of my hands over my eyes, spread my palms outwards andcovered my ears with the fingers. This was some precaution againstblindness; and deadened the sound of explosion. Bill for a moment wasunmoved, he stood upright in a niche in the wall and made jokes. 

"If I kick the bucket, " he said, "don't put a cross with ''E died for'is King and Country' over me. A bully beef tin at my 'ead will do, and on it scrawled in chalk, ''E died doin' fatigues on an emptystomach. '"

"A cig. , " he called, "'oo as a cig. , a fag, a dottle. If yer can't (p. 193)give me a fag, light one and let me look at it burnin. ' Give Tommy afag an' 'e doesn't care wot 'appens. That was in the papers. Blimey!it puts me in mind of a dummy teat. Give it to the pore man'spianner. .. . "

"The what!"

"The squalling kid, and tell the brat to be quiet, just like they tellTommy to 'old 'is tongue when they give 'im a cig. Oh, blimey!"

A shell burst and a dozen splinters whizzed past Bill's ears. He wasdown immediately another prostrate Moslem on the floor of the trench. In front of me Pryor sat, his head bent low, moving only when a shellcame near, to raise his hands and cover his eyes. The high explosiveshells boomed slowly in from every quarter now, and burst all roundus. Would they fall into the trench? If they did! The La Basséemonster, the irresistible giant, so confident of its strength was onlyone amongst the many. We sank down, each in his own way, closer to thefloor of the trench. We were preparing to be wounded in the easiestpossible way. True we might get killed; lucky if we escaped! Would anyof us see the dawn?. .. 

One is never aware of the shrapnel shell until it bursts. They (p. 194)had been passing over our heads for a long time, making a sound likethe wind in telegraph wires, before one burst above us. There was aflash and I felt the heat of the explosion on my face. For a moment Iwas dazed, then I vaguely wondered where I had been wounded. My nerveswere on edge and a coldness swept along my spine. .. . No, I wasn'tstruck. .. . 

"All right, Pryor?" I asked. 

"Something has gone down my back, perhaps it's clay, " he answered. "You're safe?"

"I think so, " I answered. "Bill. "

"I've copped it, " answered the Cockney. "Here in my back, it's burnin''orrid. "

"A minute, matey, " I said, tumbling into a kneeling position andbending over him. "Let me undo your equipment. "

I pulled his pack-straps clear, loosened his shirt front and tunic, pulled the clothes down his back. Under the left shoulder I found ahot piece of shrapnel casing which had just pierced through his dressand rested on the skin. A black mark showed where it had burned in butlittle harm was done to Bill. 

"You're all right, matey, " I said. "Put on your robes again. "

"Stretcher-bearers at the double, " came the cry up the trench and (p. 195)I turned to Pryor. He was attending to one of our mates, a Section 3 boywho caught a bit in his arm just over the wrist. He was in pain, butthe prospect of getting out of the trench buoyed him up into greatspirits. 

"It may be England with this, " he said. 

"Any others struck?" I asked Pryor who was busy with a first fielddressing on the wounded arm. 

"Don't know, " he answered. "There are others, I think. "

"Every man down this way is struck, " came a voice; "one is out. "

"Killed?"

"I think so. "

"Who is he?"

"Spud Higgles, " came the answer; then--"No, he's not killed, just gota nasty one across the head. "

They crawled across us on the way to the dressing station, seven ofthem. None were seriously hurt, except perhaps Spud Higgles, who was alittle groggy and vowed he'd never get well again until he had adecent drink of English beer, drawn from the tap. 

The shelling never slackened; and all the missiles dropped (p. 196)perilously near; a circle of five hundred yards with the trenchwinding across it, enclosed the dumping ground of the German guns. Attimes the trench was filled with the acid stench of explosives mixedwith fine lime flung from the fallen masonry with which the place waslittered. This caused every man to cough, almost choking as the throattried to rid itself of the foreign substance. One or two fainted andrecovered only after douches of cold water on the face and chest. 

The suspense wore us down; we breathed the suffocating fumes of oneexplosion and waited, our senses tensely strung for the coming of thenext shell. The sang-froid which carried us through many a tightcorner with credit utterly deserted us, we were washed-out things;with noses to the cold earth, like rats in a trap we waited for thenext moment which might land us into eternity. The excitement of abayonet charge, the mad tussle with death on the blood-stained field, which for some reason is called the field of honour was denied us; wehad to wait and lie in the trench, which looked so like a grave, andsink slowly into the depths of depression. 

Everything seemed so monstrously futile, so unfinished, so (p. 197)useless. Would the dawn see us alive or dead? What did it matter? Allthat we desired was that this were past, that something, no matterwhat, came and relieved us of our position. All my fine safeguardsagainst terrible wounds were neglected. What did it matter where ashell hit me now, a weak useless thing at the bottom of a trench? Letit come, blow me to atoms, tear me to pieces, what did I care? I feltlike one in a horrible nightmare; unable to help myself. I lay passiveand waited. 

I believe I dozed off at intervals. Visions came before my eyes, thesandbags on the parapet assumed fantastic shapes, became alive andjeered down at me. I saw Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran, the livelyyouth who is so real to all the children of Donegal, look down at mefrom the top of the trench. He carried a long, glistening bayonet inhis hand and laughed at me. I thought him a fool for ever coming nearthe field of war. War! Ah, it amused him! He laughed at me. I wasafraid; he was not; he was afraid of nothing. What would Bill think ofhim? I turned to the Cockney; but he knelt there, head to the earth, a motionless Moslem. Was he asleep? Probably he was; any way it (p. 198)did not matter. 

The dawn came slowly, a gradual awaking from darkness into a cheerlessday, cloudy grey and pregnant with rain that did not fall. Now andagain we could hear bombs bursting out in front and still theartillery thundered at our communication trench. 

Bill sat upright rubbing his chest. 

"What's wrong?" I asked. 

"What's wrong! Everythink, " he answered. "There are platoons ofintruders on my shirt, sappin' and diggin' trenches and Lord knowswot!"

"Verminous, Bill?"

"Cooty as 'ell, " he said. "But wait till I go back to England. I'll gointer a beershop and get a pint, a gallon, a barrel--"

"A hogshead, " I prompted. 

"I've got one, my own napper's an 'og's 'ead, " said Bill. 

"When I get the beer I'll capture a coot, a big bull coot, an' make'im drunk, " he continued. "When 'e's in a fightin' mood I'll put himinside my shirt an' cut 'im amok. There'll be ructions; 'e'll chargethe others with fixed bayonets an' rout 'em. Oh! blimey! will theyever stop this damned caper? Nark it. Fritz, nark yer doin's, (p. 199)ye fool. "

Bill cowered down as the shell burst, then sat upright again. 

"I'm gettin' more afraid of these things every hour, " he said, "what isthe war about?"

"I don't know, " I answered. 

"I'm sick of it, " Bill muttered. 

"Why did you join?"

"To save myself the trouble of telling people why I didn't, " heanswered with a laugh. "Flat on yer tummy, Rifleman Teake, there'sanother shell. "

About noon the shelling ceased; we breathed freely again anddiscovered we were very hungry. No food had passed our lips sincebreakfast the day before. Stoner was afoot, alert and active, he hadslept for eight hours in his cubby-hole, and the youngster was nowcovered with clay and very dirty. 

"I'll go back to the cook's waggon at Givenchy and rake up some grub, "he said, and off he went. 

CHAPTER XIV (p. 200)

A FIELD OF BATTLE

 The men who stand to their rifles See all the dead on the plain Rise at the hour of midnight To fight their battles again. 

 Each to his place in the combat, All to the parts they played, With bayonet brisk to its purpose, With rifle and hand-grenade. 

 Shadow races with shadow, Steel comes quick on steel, Swords that are deadly silent, And shadows that do not feel. 

 And shades recoil and recover, And fade away as they fall In the space between the trenches, And the watchers see it all. 

I lay down in the trench and was just dropping off to sleep when amessage came along the trench. 

"Any volunteers to help to carry out wounded?" was the call. 

Four of us volunteered and a guide conducted us along to the firingline. He was a soldier of the 23rd London, the regiment which had madethe charge the night before; he limped a little, a dejected look (p. 201)was in his face and his whole appearance betokened great weariness. 

"How did you get on last night?" I asked him. 

"My God! my God!" he muttered, and seemed to be gasping for breath. "Isuppose there are some of us left yet, but they'll be very few. "

"Did you capture the trench?"

"They say we did, " he answered, and it seemed as if he were speakingof an incident in which he had taken no part. "But what does itmatter? There's few of us left. "

We entered the main communication trench, one just like the others, narrow and curving round buttresses at every two or three yards. Thefloor was covered with blood, not an inch of it was free from the darkreddish tint. 

"My God, my God, " said the 23rd man, and he seemed to be repeating thephrase without knowing what he said. "The wounded have been going downall night, all morning and they're only beginning to come. "

A youth of nineteen or twenty sat in a niche in the trench, naked tothe waist save where a bandaged-arm rested in a long arm-sling. 

"How goes it, matey?" I asked. 

"Not at all bad, chummie, " he replied bravely; then as a spasm of (p. 202)pain shot through him he muttered under his breath, "Oh! oh!"

A little distance along we met another; he was ambling painfully downthe trench, supporting himself by resting his arms on the shoulders ofa comrade. 

"Not so quick, matey, " I heard him say, "Go quiet like and mind thestones. When you hit one of them it's a bit thick you know. I'm sorryto trouble you. "

"It's all right, old man, " said the soldier in front. "I'll try and beas easy as I can. "

We stood against the wall of the trench to let them go by. Opposite usthey came to a dead stop. The wounded man was stripped to the waist, and a bandage, white at one time but now red with blood, was tiedround his shoulder. His face was white and drawn except over his cheekbones. There the flesh, tightly drawn, glowed crimson as poppies. 

"Have you any water to spare, chummy?" he asked. 

"We've been told not to give water to wounded men, " I said. 

"I know that, " he answered. "But just a drop to rinse out my mouth!I've lain out between the lines all night. Just to rinse my mouth, (p. 203)chummy!"

I drew the cork from my water bottle and held it to his lips, he tooka mouthful, paused irresolutely for a moment and a greedy light shonein his eyes. Then he spat the water on the floor of the trench. 

"Thank you, chummy, thank you, " he said, and the sorrowful journey wasresumed. 

Where the road from the village is cut through by the trench we cameon a stretcher lying on the floor. On it lay a man, or rather, part ofa man, for both his arms had been blown off near the shoulders. Awaterproof ground sheet, covered with mud lay across him, the twostumps stuck out towards the stretcher-poles. One was swathed inbandages, the other had come bare, and a white bone protruded over ared rag which I took to be a first field dressing. Two men who hadbeen busy helping the wounded all morning and the night before carriedthe stretcher to here, through the tortuous cutting. One had nowdropped out, utterly exhausted. He lay in the trench, covered withblood from head to foot and gasping. His mate smoked a cigaretteleaning against the revêtement. 

"Reliefs?" he asked, and we nodded assent. (p. 204)

"These are the devil's own trenches, " he said. "The stretcher must becarried at arms length over the head all the way, even an emptystretcher cannot be carried through here. "

"Can we go out on the road?" asked one of my mates; an Irishmanbelonging to another section. 

"It'll be a damned sorry road for you if you go out. They're alwaysshelling it. "

"Who is he?" I asked pointing to the figure on the stretcher. He wasunconscious; morphia, that gift of Heaven, had temporarily relievedhim of his pain. 

"He's an N. C. O. , we found him lying out between the trenches, " saidthe stretcher-bearer. "He never lost consciousness. When we tried toraise him, he got up to his feet and ran away, yelling. The pain musthave been awful. "

"Has the trench been captured?"

"Of course it has, " said the stretcher-bearer, an ironical smilehovering around his eyes. "It has been a grand victory. Trench takenby Territorials, you'll see in the papers. And there'll be picturestoo, of the gallant charge. Heavens! they should see between the (p. 205)trenches where the men are blown to little pieces. "

The cigarette which he held between his blood-stained fingers droppedto the ground; he did not seem to notice it fall. 

We carried the wounded man out to the road and took our way downtowards Givenchy. The route was very quiet; now and then a riflebullet flew by; but apart from that there was absolute peace. Weturned in on the Brick Pathway and had got half way down when a shellburst fifty yards behind us. There was a moment's pause, a shower ofsplinters flew round and above us, the stretcher sank towards theground and almost touched. Then as if all of us had become suddenlyashamed of some intended action, we straightened our backs and walkedon. We placed the stretcher on a table in the dressing-room and turnedback. Two days later the armless man died in hospital. 

The wounded were still coming out; we met another party comprised ofour own men. The wounded soldier who lay on the stretcher had bothlegs broken and held in place with a rifle splint; he also had abayonet tourniquet round the thick of his arm. The poor fellow was (p. 206)in great agony. The broken bones were touching one another at everymove. Now and again he spoke and his question was always the same:"Are we near the dressing station yet?"

That night I slept in the trench, slept heavily. I put my equipmentunder me, that kept the damp away from my bones. In the morning Stonertold an amusing story. During the night he wanted to see Bill, but didnot know where the Cockney slept. 

"Where's Bill?" he said. 

"Bill, " I replied, speaking though asleep. 

"Bill, yes, " said Stoner. 

"Bill, " I muttered turning on my side, seeking a more comfortableposition. 

"Do you know where Bill is?" shouted Stoner. 

"Bill!" I repeated again. 

"Yes, Bill!" he said, "Bill. B-i-double l, Bill. Where is here?"

"He's here, " I said getting to my feet and holding out my waterbottle. "In here. " And I pulled out the cork. 

I was twitted about this all day. I remembered nothing of the incidentof the water bottle although in some vague way I recollected (p. 207)Stoner asking me about Bill. 

On the following day I had a chance of visiting the scene of theconflict. All the wounded were now carried away, only the deadremained, as yet unburied. 

The men were busy in the trench which lay on the summit of a slope;the ground dipped in the front and rear. The field I came across waspractically "dead ground" as far as rifle fire was concerned. Only oneplace, the wire front of the original German trench, was dangerous. This was "taped out" as our boys say, by some hidden sniper. Alreadythe parados was lined with newly-made firing positions, that gave thesentry view of the German trench some forty or fifty yards in front. All there was very quiet now but our men were making every preparationfor a counter attack. The Engineers had already placed some barbedwire down; they had been hard at it the night before; I could see thehastily driven piles, the loosely flung intricate lines of wire flungdown anyhow. The whole work was part of what is known as"consolidation of our position. "

Many long hours of labour had yet to be expended on the trench (p. 208)before a soldier could sleep at ease in it. Now that the fighting hadceased for a moment the men had to bend their backs to interminablefatigues. The war, as far as I have seen it is waged for the most partwith big guns and picks and shovels. The history of the war is ahistory of sandbags and shells. 

CHAPTER XV (p. 209)

THE REACTION

 We are marching back from the battle, Where we've all left mates behind, And our officers are gloomy, And the N. C. O. 's are kind, When a Jew's harp breaks the silence, Purring out an old refrain; And we thunder through the village Roaring "Here we are again. "

Four days later we were relieved by the Canadians. They came in aboutnine o'clock in the evening when we stood to-arms in the trenches infull marching order under a sky where colour wrestled with colour in ablazing flare of star-shells. We went out gladly and left behind thedug-out in which we cooked our food but never slept, the old crazysandbag construction, weather-worn and shrapnel-scarred, that stoopedforward like a crone on crutches on the wooden posts that supportedit. 

"How many casualties have we had?" I asked Stoner as we passed out ofthe village and halted for a moment on the verge of a wood, (p. 210)waiting until the men formed up at rear. 

"I don't know, " he answered gloomily. "See the crosses there, " he saidpointing to the soldiers' cemetery near the trees. "Seven of the boyshave their graves in that spot; then the wounded and those who wentdotty. Did you see X. Of ---- Company coming out?"

"No, " I said. 

"I saw him last night when I went out to the Quartermaster's storesfor rations, " Stoner told me. "They were carrying him out on theirshoulders, and he sat there very quiet like looking at the moon. 

"Over there in the corner all by themselves they are, " Stoner went on, alluding to the graves towards which my eyes were directed. "You cansee the crosses, white wood----"

"The same as other crosses?"

"Just the same, " said my mate. "Printed in black. Number something oranother, Rifleman So and So, London Irish Rifles, killed in action ona certain date. That's all. "

"Why do you say 'Chummy' when talking to a wounded man, Stoner?" Iasked. "Speaking to a healthy pal you just say 'mate. '"

"Is that so?" (p. 211)

"That's so. Why do you say it?"

"I don't know. "

"I suppose because it's more motherly. "

"That may be, " said Stoner and laughed. 

Quick march! The moon came out, ghostly, in a cloudy sky; a light, pale as water, slid over the shoulders of the men in front and rippleddown the creases of their trousers. The bayonets wobbled wearily onthe hips, those bayonets that once, burnished as we knew how toburnish them, were the glory and delight of many a long and strictgeneral inspection at St. Albans; they were now coated with mud andthick with rust, a disgrace to the battalion!

When the last stray bullet ceased whistling over our heads, and wewere well beyond the range of rifle fire, leave to smoke was granted. To most of us it meant permission to smoke openly. Cigarettes had beenburned for quite a quarter of an hour before and we had raised them atintervals to our lips, concealing the glow of their lighted ends underour curved fingers. We drew the smoke in swiftly, treasured itlovingly in our mouths for some time then exhaled it slowly andgrudgingly. 

The sky cleared a little, but at times drifts of grey cloud swept (p. 212)over the moon and blotted out the stars. On either side of the roadlone poplars stood up like silent sentinels, immovable, and the softwarm breeze that touched us like a breath shook none of their branches. Here and there lime-washed cottages, roofed with patches of strawwhere the enemy's shells had dislodged the terra-cotta tiles, showedlights in the windows. The natives had gone away and soldiers werebilleted in their places. Marching had made us hot; we perspiredfreely and the sweat ran down our arms and legs; it trickled down ourtemples and dropped from our eyebrows to our cheeks. 

"Hang on to the step! Quick march! As you were! About turn!" some oneshouted imitating our sergeant-major's voice. We had marched incomparative silence up to now, but the mimicked order was like a matchapplied to a powder magazine. We had had eighteen days in the trenches, we were worn down, very weary and very sick of it all; now we were outand would be out for some days; we were glad, madly glad. All began tomake noises at the same time, to sing, to shout, to yell; in the night, on the road with its lines of poplars we became madly delirious, webroke free like a confused torrent from a broken dam. Everybody (p. 213)had something to say or sing, senseless chatter and sentimental songsran riot; all uttered something for the mere pleasure of utterance; wewere out of the trenches and free for the time being from danger. 

Stoner marched on my right, hanging on his knees a little, singing amusic hall song and smoking. A little flutter of ash fell from hiscigarette, which seemed to be stuck to his lower lip as it rose andfell with the notes of the song. When he came to the chorus he lookedround as if defying somebody, then raised his right hand over his headand gripping his rifle, held the weapon there until the last word ofthe chorus trembled on his lips; then he brought it down with the lastword and looked round as if to see that everybody was admiring hisaction. Bill played his Jew's harp, strummed countless sentimental, music-hall ditties on its sensitive tongue, his being was flooded withexuberant song, he was transported by his trumpery toy. Bill lived, his whole person surged with a vitality impossible to stem. 

We came in line with a row of cottages, soldiers' billets for the mostpart, and the boys were not yet in bed. It was a place to sing somethinggreat, something in sympathy with our own mood. The song when it (p. 214)came was appropriate, it came from one voice, and hundreds took it upfuriously as if they intended to tear it to pieces. 

 Here we are, here we are, here we are again. 

The soldiers not in bed came out to look at us; it made us feel noble;but to me, with that feeling of nobility there came somethingpathetic, an influence of sorrow that caused my song to dissolve in avague yearning that still had no separate existence of its own. It wasas yet one with the night, with my mood and the whole spin of things. The song rolled on:--

 Fit and well and feeling as right as rain, Now we're all together; never mind the weather, Since here we are again, When there's trouble brewing; when there's something doing, Are we downhearted. No! let them all come! Here we are, here we are, here we are again!

As the song died away I felt very lonely, a being isolated. True therewas a barn with cobwebs on its rafters down the road, a snug farm wherethey made fresh butter and sold new laid eggs. But there was somethingin the night, in the ghostly moonshine, in the bushes out in the (p. 215)fields nodding together as if in consultation, in the tall poplars, inthe straight road, in the sound of rifle firing to rear and in the songsung by the tired boys coming back from battle, that filled me withinfinite pathos and a feeling of being alone in a shelterless world. "Here we are; here we are again. " I thought of Mervin, and six othersdead, of their white crosses, and I found myself weeping silently likea child. .. . 

CHAPTER XVI (p. 216)

PEACE AND WAR

 You'll see from the La Bassée Road, on any summer day, The children herding nanny goats, the women making hay. You'll see the soldiers, khaki clad, in column and platoon, Come swinging up La Bassée Road from billets in Bethune. There's hay to save and corn to cut, but harder work by far Awaits the soldier boys who reap the harvest fields of war. You'll see them swinging up the road where women work at hay, The long, straight road, La Bassée Road, on any summer day. 

The farmhouse stood in the centre of the village; the village restedon the banks of a sleepy canal on which the barges carried the woundeddown from the slaughter line to the hospital at Bethune. The villagewas shelled daily. When shelling began a whistle was blown warning allsoldiers to seek cover immediately in the dug-outs roofed with sandbags, which were constructed by the military authorities in nearly every gardenin the place. When the housewifes heard the shells bursting they ranout and brought in their washing from the lines where it was hung outto dry; then they sat down and knitted stockings or sewed garments (p. 217)to send to their menfolk at the war. In the village they said: "Whenthe shells come the men run in for their lives, and the women run outfor their washing. "

The village was not badly battered by shell fire. Our barn got touchedonce and a large splinter of a concussion shell which fell there wasused as a weight for a wag-of-the-wall clock in the farmhouse. Thevillage was crowded with troops, new men, who wore clean shirts, neatputtees and creased trousers. They had not been in the trenches yet, but were going up presently. 

Bill and I were sitting in an _estaminet_ when two of these youngsterscame in and sat opposite. 

"New 'ere?" asked Bill. 

"Came to Boulogne six days ago and marched all the way here, " said oneof them, a red-haired youth with bushy eyebrows. "Long over?" heasked. 

"Just about nine months, " said Bill. 

"You've been through it then. "

"Through it, " said Bill, lying splendidly, "I think we 'ave. At Monswe went in eight 'undred strong. We're the only two as is left. "

"Gracious! And you never got a scratch?"

"Never a pin prick, " said Bill, "And I saw the shells so thick (p. 218)comin' over us that you couldn't see the sky. They was like crows upabove. "

"They were?"

"We were in the trenches then, " Bill said. "The orficer comes up andsez: 'Things are getting despirate! We've got to charge. 'Ool follerme?' 'I'm with you!' I sez, and up I jumps on the parapet pulling amachine gun with me. "

"A machine gun!" said the red-haired man. 

"A machine gun, " Bill went on. "When one is risen 'e can do anything. I could 'ave lifted a 'ole battery on my shoulders because I was mad. I 'ad a look to my front to get the position then I goes forward. 'Come back, cried the orficer as 'e fell----"

"Fell!"

"'E got a bullet through his bread basket and 'e flopped. But therewas no 'oldin' o' me. 'Twas death or glory, neck 'an nothin', 'ell forleather at that moment. The London Irish blood was up; one of theChelsea Cherubs was out for red blood 'olesale and retail. I slung themachine gun on my shoulder, sharpened my bayonet with a piece ofsand-paper, took the first line o' barbed wire entanglements at (p. 219)a jump and got caught on the second. It gored me like a bull. I gotsix days C. B. For 'avin' the rear of my trousers torn when we came outo' the trenches. "

"Tell me something I can believe, " said the red-haired youth. 

"Am I not tellin' you something, " asked Bill. "Nark it, matey, narkit. I tell Gospel-stories and you'll not believe me. "

"But it's all tommy rot. "

"Is it? The Germans did'nt think so when I charged plunk into themiddle of 'em. Yer should 'ave been there to see it. They were allround me and two taubes over 'ead watching my movements. Swish! and mybayonet went through the man in front and stabbed the identity disc ofanother. When I drew the bayonet out the butt of my 'ipe[3] would 'ita man behind me in the tummy. Ugh! 'e would say and flop bringing amate down with 'im may be. The dead was all round me and I built aparapet of their bodies, puttin' the legs criss-cross and makin' loop'oles. Then they began to bomb me from the other side. 'Twas gettin''ot I tell you and I began to think of my 'ome; the dug-out in (p. 220)the trench. What was I to do? If I crossed the open they'd bring medown with a bullet. There was only one thing to be done. I had myboots on me for three 'ole weeks of 'ot weather, 'otter than this andbeer not so near as it is now----"

 [Footnote 3: Rifle. ]

"Have another drink, Bill?" I asked. 

"Glad yer took the 'int, " said my mate. "Story tellin's a dry fatigue. Well as I was sayin' my socks 'ad been on for a 'ole month----"

"Three weeks, " I corrected. 

"Three weeks, " Bill repeated and continued. "I took orf my boots. 'Respirators!' the Germans yelled the minute my socks were bare, andoff they went leavin' me there with my 'ome-made trench. When I cameback I got a dose of C. B. As I've told you before. "

We went back to our billet. In the farmyard the pigs were busy on themidden, and they looked at us with curious expressive eyes that peeredroguishly out from under their heavy hanging cabbage-leaves of ears. In one corner was the field-cooker. The cooks were busy making dixiesof bully beef stew. Their clothes were dirty and greasy, so were theirarms, bare from the shoulders almost, and taut with muscles. (p. 221)Through a path that wound amongst a medley of agricultural instruments, ploughs harrows and grubbers, the farmer's daughter came striding likea ploughman, two children hanging on to her apron strings. A stretcherleant against our water-cart, and dried clots of blood were on itsshafts. The farmer's dog lay panting on the midden, his red tonguehanging out and saliva dropping on the dung, overhead the swallowswere swooping and flying in under the eaves where now and again theynested for a moment before getting up to resume their exhiliratingflight. A dirty barefooted boy came in through the large entrance-gateleading a pair of sleepy cows with heavy udders which shook backwardsand forwards as they walked. The horns of one cow were twisted, theend of one pointed up, the end of the other pointed down. 

One of Section 4's boys was looking at the cow. 

"The ole geeser's 'andlebars is twisted, " said Bill, addressing nobodyin particular and alluding to the cow. 

"It's 'orns, yer fool!" said Section 4. 

"Yer fool, yerself!" said Bill. "I'm not as big a fool as I look----"

"Git! Your no more brains than a 'en. " (p. 222)

"Nor 'ave you either, " said Bill. 

"I've twice as many brains, as you, " said Section 4. 

"So 'ave I, " was the answer made by Bill; then getting pugilistic hethundered out: "I'll give yer one on the moosh. "

"Will yer?" said Section 4. 

"Straight I will. Give you one across your ugly phiz! It looks as ifit had been out all night and some one dancing on it. "

Bill took off his cap and flung it on the ground as if it were thegauntlet of a knight of old. His hair, short and wiry, stood up onend. Section 4 looked at it. 

"Your hair looks like furze in a fit, " said Section 4. 

"You're lookin' for one on the jor, " said Bill closing and opening hisfist. "And I'll give yer one. "

"Will yer? Two can play at that gyme!"

Goliath massive and monumental came along at that moment. He looked atBill. 

"Looking for trouble, mate?" he asked. 

"Section 4's shouting the odds, as usual, " Bill replied. 

"Come along to the Canal and have a bath; it will cool your (p. 223)temper. "

"Will it?" said Bill as he came along with us somewhat reluctantlytowards the Canal banks. 

"What does shouting the odds mean?" I asked him. 

"Chewin' the rag, " he answered. 

"And that means----"

"Kicking up a row and lettin' every one round you know, " said Bill. "That's what shoutin' the blurry odds means. "

"What's the difference between shouting the odds and shouting theblurry odds?" I asked. 

"It's like this, Pat, " Bill began to explain, a blush rising on hischeeks. Bill often blushed. "Shoutin' the odds isn't strong enough, but shoutin' the blurry odds has ginger in it. It makes a bloke listento you. "

Stoner was sitting on the bank of La Bassée canal, his bare feettouching the water, his body deep in a cluster of wild iris. I satdown beside him and took off my boots. 

I pulled a wild iris and explained to Stoner how in Donegal we madeboats from the iris and placed them by the brookside at night. Whenwe went to bed the fairies crossed the streams on the boats which (p. 224)we made. 

"Did they cross on the boats?" asked Stoner. 

"Of course they did, " I answered. "We never found a boat left in themorning. "

"The stream washed them away, " said Stoner. 

"You civilised abomination, " I said and proceeded to fashion a boat, when it was made I placed it on the stream and watched it circle roundon an eddy near the bank. 

"Here's something, " said Stoner, getting hold of a little frog withhis hand and placing it on the boat. For a moment the iris bark swayedunsteadily, the frog's little glistening eyes wobbled in its head thenit dived in to the water, overturning the boat as it hopped off it. 

An impudent-looking little boy with keen, inquisitive eyes, came alongthe canal side wheeling a very big barrow on which was heaped a numberof large loaves. His coat a torn, ragged fringe, hung over the hips, he wore a Balaclava helmet (thousands of which have been flung away byour boys in the hot weather) and khaki puttees. 

The boy came to a stop opposite, laid down his barrow and wiped (p. 225)the sweat from his brow with a dirty hand. 

"Bonjour!" said the boy. 

"Bonjour, petit garçon, " Stoner replied, proud of his French which islimited to some twenty words. 

The boy asked for a cigarette; a souvenir. We told him to proceed onhis journey, we were weary of souvenir hunters. The barrow moved on, the wheel creaking rustily and the boy whistled a light-hearted tune. That his request had not been granted did not seem to trouble him. 

Two barges, coupled and laden with coal rounded a corner of the canal. They were drawn by five persons, a woman with a very white sunbonnetin front. She was followed by a barefooted youth in khaki tunic, ahunch-backed man with heavy projecting jowl and a hare-lipped youth ofseventeen or eighteen. Last on the tug rope was an oldish man with along white beard parted in the middle and rusty coloured at the tips. A graceful slip of a girl, lithe as a marsh sapling, worked the tillerof the rear barge and she took no notice of the soldiers on the shoreor in the water. 

"Going to bathe, Stoner?" I asked. (p. 226)

"When the barges go by, " he answered and I twitted him on his modesty. 

Goliath, six foot three of magnificent bone and muscle was in thecanal. Swanking his trudgeon stroke he surged through the dirty waterlike an excited whale, puffing and blowing. Bill, losing in everystroke, tried to race him, but retired beaten and very happy. The coldwater rectified his temper, he was now in a most amiable humour. Pryorwas away down the canal on the barge, when he came to the bridge hewould dive off and race some of Section 4 boys back to the spot whereI was sitting. There is an eternal and friendly rivalry betweenSections 3 and 4. 

"Stoner, going in?" I asked my comrade, who was standing stark on thebank. 

"In a minute, " he answered. 

"Now, " I said. 

"Get in yourself ----"

"Presently, " I replied, "but you go in now, unless you want to getshoved in. "

He dived gracefully and came up near the other bank spluttering andshaking the water off his hair. Bill challenged him to a race and bothstruck off down the stream, as they swam passing jokes with their (p. 227)comrades on the bank. In the course of ten minutes they returned, perched proudly on the stern of a barge and making ready to dive. Atthat moment I undressed and went in. 

My swim was a very short one; shorter than usual, and I am not much ofa swimmer. A searching shell sped over from the German lines hit theground a few hundred yards to rear of the Canal and whirled a showerof dust into the water, which speedily delivered several hundred nudefighters to the clothes-littered bank. A second and third shelldropping nearer drove all modest thoughts from our minds for themoment (unclothed, a man feels helplessly defenceless), and we hurriedinto our warrens through throngs of women rushing out to take in theirwashing. 

One of the shells hit the artillery horse lines on the left of thevillage and seven horses were killed. 

CHAPTER XVII (p. 228)

EVERYDAY LIFE AT THE FRONT

 There's the butter, gad, and horse-fly, The blow-fly and the blue, The fine fly and the coarse fly, But never flew a worse fly Of all the flies that flew

 Than the little sneaky black fly That gobbles up our ham, The beggar's not a slack fly, He really is a crack fly, And wolfs the soldiers jam. 

 So strafe that fly! Our motto Is "strafe him when you can. " He'll die because he ought to, He'll go because he's got to, So at him every man!

What time we have not been in the trenches we have spent marching outor marching back to them, or sleeping in billets at the rear and goingout as working parties, always ready to move at two hours' notice byday and one hour's notice by night. 

I got two days C. B. At La Beuvriere; because I did not come out onparade one morning. I really got out of bed very early, and went for awalk. Coming to a pond where a number of frogs were hopping from (p. 229)the bank into the water, I sat down and amused myself by watching themstaring at me out of the pond; their big, intelligent eyes full ofsome wonderful secret. They interested and amused me, probably Iinterested and amused them, one never knows. Then I read a little andtime flew by. On coming back I was told to report at the Companyorderly room. Two days C. B. 

I got into trouble at another time. I was on sentry go at a dingyplace, a village where the people make their living by selling badbeer and weak wine to one another. Nearly every house in the place isan _estaminet_. I slept in the guard-room and as my cartridge poucheshad an unholy knack of prodding a stomach which rebelled againstdigesting bully and biscuit, I unloosed my equipment buckles. TheVisiting Rounds found me imperfectly dressed, my shoulder flapswobbled, my haversack hung with a slant and the cartridge pouchesleant out as if trying to spring on my feet. The next evening I was upbefore the C. O. 

My hair was rather long, and as it was well-brushed it looked imposing. So I thought in the morning when I looked in the platoon mirror--theplatoon mirror was an inch square glass with a jagged edge. My (p. 230)imposing hair caught the C. O. 's eye the moment I entered the orderlyroom. "Don't let me see you with hair like that again, " he began andread out the charge. I forget the words which hinted that I was awrong-doer in the eyes of the law military; the officers were there, every officer in the battalion, they all looked serious and resigned. It seemed as if their minds had been made up on something relating tome. 

The orderly officer who apprehended me in the act told how he did it, speaking as if from a book but consulting neither notes nor papers. 

"What have you to say?" asked the C. O. Looking at me. 

I had nothing particular to say, my thoughts were busy on an enigmathat might not interest him, namely, why a young officer near him keptrubbing a meditative chin with a fugitive finger, and why that fingercame down so swiftly when the C. O. 's eyes were turned towards theyoung man. I replied to the question by saying "Guilty. "

"We know you are guilty, " said the C. O. And gave me a little lecture. I had a reputation, the young men of the regiment looked up to me, anolder man; and by setting a good example I could do a great deal (p. 231)of good, &c. , &c. The lecture was very trying, but the rest of theproceedings were interesting. I was awarded three extra guards. I onlydid one of them. 

We hung on the fringe of the Richebourge _mêlée_, but were not calledinto play. 

"What was it like?" we asked the men marching back from battle inthe darkness and the rain. There was no answer, they were too wearyeven to speak. 

"How did you get along in the fight?" I called to one who straggledalong in the rear, his head sunk forward on his breast, his kneesbending towards the ground. 

"Tsch! Tsch!" he answered, his voice barely rising above a whisper ashis boots paced out in a rhythm of despair to some village at therear. 

There in the same place a night later, we saw soldiers' equipmentspiled on top of one another and stretching for yards on either side ofthe road: packs, haversacks, belts, bayonets, rifles, and cartridgepouches. The equipments were taken in from the field of battle, thewar-harness of men now wounded and dead was out of use for the moment, other soldiers would wear them presently and make great fight in them. 

Once at Cuinchy, Section 3 went out for a wash in a dead stream (p. 232)that once flowed through our lines and those of the Germans. The waterwas dirty and it was a miracle that the frogs which frisked in it wereso clean. 

"It's too dirty to wash there, " said Pryor. 

"A change of dirt is 'olesome, " said Bill, placing his soap on thebank and dipping his mess tin in the water. As he bent down the bodyof a dead soldier inflated by its own rottenness bubbled up to thesurface. We gave up all idea of washing. Stoner who was on theopposite bank tried to jump across at that moment. Miscalculating thedistance, he fell short and into the water. We dragged him outspluttering and I regret to say we laughed, almost heartily. Thatnight when we stood to arms in the trenches, waiting for an attackthat did not come off, Stoner stood to with his rifle, an overcoat, apair of boots and a pair of socks as his sole uniform. 

How many nights have we marched under the light of moon and stars, sleepy and dog-weary, in song or in silence, as the mood prompted usor the orders compelled us, up to the trenches and back again! We haveslept in the same old barns with cobwebs in the roof and straw (p. 233)deep on the floor. We have sung songs, old songs that float onthe ocean of time like corks and find a cradle on every wave; newsongs that make a momentary ripple on the surface and die as theircircle extends outwards, songs of love and lust, of murder and greatadventure. We have gambled, won one another's money and lost to oneanother again, we have had our disputes, but were firm in support ofany member of our party who was flouted by any one who was not one ofWE. "Section 3, right or wrong" was and is our motto. And the sectiondwindles, the bullet and shell has been busy in lessening ourstrength, for that is the way of war. 

When in the trenches Bill and Kore amuse themselves by potting all daylong at the German lines. A conversation like the following may beoften heard. 

Bill:--"Blimey, I see a 'ead. "

Kore:--"Fire then. " (Bill fires a shot. ) "Got him?"

Bill:--"No blurry fear. The 'ead was a sandbag. I'll bet yer the shotthey send back will come nearer me than you. Bet yer a copper. "

Kore:--"Done. " (A bullet whistles by on the right of Bill's head. ) (p. 234)"I think they're firing at you. "

Bill:--"Not me, matey, but you. It's their aiming that's bad. 'Andover the coin. " (Enter an officer. )

Officer:--"Don't keep your heads over the parapet, you'll get sniped. Keep under cover as much as possible. "

Bill:--"Orl right, Sir. "

Kore:--"Yes, sir. " (Exit Officer. )

Bill:--"They say there's a war 'ere. "

Kore:--"It's only a rumour. "

At Cuinchy where the German trenches are hardly a hundred yards awayfrom ours, the firing from the opposite trenches ceased for a momentand a voice called across. 

"What about the Cup Final?" It was then the finish of the Englishfootball season. 

"Chelsea lost, " said Bill, who was a staunch supporter of that team. 

"Hard luck!" came the answer from the German trench and firing wasresumed. But Bill used his rifle no more until we changed into a newlocality. "A blurry supporter of blurry Chelsea, " he said. "'E must bea damned good sort of sausage-eater, that feller. If ever I meet 'imin Lunnon after the war, I'm goin' to make 'im as drunk as a (p. 235)public-'ouse fly. "

"What are you going to do after the war?" I asked. 

He rubbed his eyes which many sleepless nights in a shell-harriedtrench had made red and watery. 

"What will I do?" he repeated. "I'll get two beds, " he said, "and havea six months' snooze, and I'll sleep in one bed while the other'sbeing made, matey. "

In trench life many new friends are made and many old friendshipsrenewed. We were nursing a contingent of Camerons, men new to thegrind of trench work, and most of them hailing from Glasgow and theWest of Scotland. On the morning of the second day one of them said tome, "Big Jock MacGregor wants to see you. "

"Who's Big Jock?" I asked. 

"He used to work on the railway at Greenock, " I was told, and off Iwent to seek the man. 

I found him eating bully beef and biscuit on the parapet. He wasspotlessly clean, he had not yet stuck his spoon down the rim of hisstocking where his skein should have been, he had a table knife (p. 236)and fork (things that we, old soldiers, had dispensed with ages ago), in short, he was a hat-box fellow, togged up to the nines, and as yet, green to the grind of war. 

His age might be forty, he looked fifty, a fatherly sort of man, areal block of Caledonian Railway thrown, tartanised, into a trench. 

"How are you, Jock?" I said. I had never met him before. 

"Are you Pat MacGill?"

I nodded assent. 

"Man, I've often heard of you, Pat, " he went on, "I worked on the Sou'West, and my brother's an engine driver on the Caly. He reads yoursongs a'most every night. He says there are only two poets he'd give afling for--that's you and Anderson, the man who wrote _Cuddle Doon_. "

"How do you like the trenches, Jock?"

"Not so bad, man, not so bad, " he said. 

"Killed any one yet?" I asked. 

"Not yet, " he answered in all seriousness. "But there's a sniper overthere, " and he pointed a clean finger, quite untrenchy it was, towardsthe enemy's lines, "And he's fired three at me. "

"At you?" I asked. 

"Ay, and I sent him five back ----" (p. 237)

"And didn't do him in?" I asked. 

"Not yet, but if I get another two or three at him, I'll not give muchfor his chance. "

"Have you seen him?" I asked, marvelling that Big Jock had alreadyseen a sniper. 

"No, but I heard the shots go off. "

A rifle shot is the most deceptive thing in the world, so, like an oldsoldier wise in the work, I smiled under my hand. 

I don't believe that Big Jock has killed his sniper yet, but it hasbeen good to see him. When we meet he says, "What about the Caly, Pat?" and I answer, "What about the Sou' West, Jock?"

On the first Sunday after Trinity we marched out from another smallvillage in the hot afternoon. This one was a model village, snug inthe fields, and dwindling daily. The German shells are dropping thereevery day. In the course of another six months if the fronts of thecontending armies do not change, that village will be a litter of redbricks and unpeopled ruins. As it is the women, children and old menstill remain in the place and carry on their usual labours with thegreatest fortitude and patience. The village children sell percussioncaps of German shells for half a franc each, but if the shell (p. 238)has killed any of the natives when it exploded, the cap will not besold for less than thirty sous. But the sum is not too dear for anose-cap with a history. 

There are a number of soldiers buried in the graveyard of this place. At one corner four different crosses bear the following names: AnatoleSéries, Private O'Shea, Corporal Smith and under the symbol of theChristian religion lies one who came from sunny heathen climes to helpthe Christian in his wars. His name is Jaighandthakur, a soldier ofthe Bengal Mountain Battery. 

It was while here that Bill complained of the scanty allowance of hisrations to an officer, when plum pudding was served at dinner. 

"Me and Stoner 'as got 'ardly nuffink, " Bill said. 

"How much have you got?" asked the officer. 

"You could 'ardly see it, it's so small, " said Bill. "But now it's allgone. "

"Gone?"

"A fly flew away with my portion, and Stoner's 'as fallen through theneck of 'is waterbottle, " said Bill. The officer ordered both men (p. 239)to be served out with a second portion. 

We left the village in the morning and marched for the best part ofthe day. We were going to hold a trench five kilometres north ofSouchez and the Hills of Lorette. The trenches to which we were goinghad recently been held by the French but now that portion of the lineis British; our soldiers fight side by side with the French on theHills of Lorette at present. 

The day was exceedingly hot, a day when men sweat and grumble as theymarch, when they fall down like dead things on the roadside at everyhalt and when they rise again they wonder how under Heaven they aregoing to drag their limbs and burdens along for the next fortyminutes. We passed Les Brebes, like men in a dream, pursued a tortuouspath across a wide field, in the middle of which are severalshell-shattered huts and some acres of shell-scooped ground. The placewas once held by a French battery and a spy gave the position away tothe enemy. Early one morning the shells began to sweep in, carryingthe message of death from guns miles away. Never have I seen such amemento of splendid gunnery, as that written large in shell-holes onthat field. The bomb-proof shelters are on a level with the (p. 240)ground, the vicinity is pitted as if with smallpox, but two hundredyards out on any side there is not a trace of a shell, every shot wenttrue to the mark. A man with a rifle two hundred yards away could notbe much more certain than the German gunners of a target as large. Buttheir work went for nothing: the battery had changed its position thenight previous to the attack. Had it remained there neither man norgun would have escaped. 

The communication trench we found to be one of the widest we had everseen; a handbarrow could have been wheeled along the floor. Atseveral points the trench was roofed with heavy pit-props and sandbagsproof against any shrapnel fire. It was an easy trench to march in, and we needed all the ease possible. The sweat poured from every pore, down our faces, our arms and legs, our packs seemed filled with lead, our haversacks rubbing against our hips felt like sand paper; thewhole march was a nightmare. The water we carried got hot in ourbottles and became almost undrinkable. In the reserve trench we gotsome tea, a godsend to us all. 

We had just stepped into a long, dark, pit-prop-roofed tunnel and (p. 241)the light of the outer world made us blind. I shuffled up against aman who was sitting on one side, righted myself and stumbled againstthe knees of another who sat on a seat opposite. 

"Will ye have a wee drop of tay, my man?" a voice asked, an Irishvoice, a voice that breathed of the North of Ireland. I tried to seethings, but could not. I rubbed my eyes and had a vision of an armstretching towards me; a hand and a mess tin. I drank the teagreedily. 

"There's a lot of you ones comin' up, " the voice said. "You ones!" Howoften have I said "You ones, " how often do I say it still when I'm tooexcited to be grammatical. "Ye had a' must to be too late for tay!"the voice said from the darkness. 

"What does he say?" asked Pryor who was just ahead of me. 

"He says that we were almost too late for tea, " I replied and staredhard into the darkness on my left. Figures of men in khaki took formin the gloom, a bayonet sparkled; some one was putting a lid on amess-tin and I could see the man doing it. .. . 

"Inniskillings?" I asked. 

"That's us. " (p. 242)

"Quiet?" I asked, alluding to their life in the trench. 

"Not bad at all, " was the answer. "A shell came this road an houragone, and two of us got hit. "

"Killed?"

"Boys, oh! boys, aye, " was the answer; "and seven got wounded. Nine ofthe best, man, nine of the best. Have another drop of tay?"

At the exit of the tunnel the floor was covered with blood and theflies were buzzing over it; the sated insects rose lazily as we cameup, settled down in front, rose again and flew back over our heads. What a feast they were having on the blood of men!

The trenches into which we had come were not so clean as many we hadbeen in before; although the dug-outs were much better constructedthan those in the British lines, they smelt vilely of somethingsickening and nauseous. 

A week passed away and we were still in the trenches. Sometimes itrained, but for the most part the sky was clear and the sun very hot. The trenches were dug out of the chalk, the world in which we livedwas a world of white and green, white parapet and parados with a (p. 243)fringe of grass on the superior slope of each. The place was veryquiet, not more than two dozen shells came our way daily, and it wasthere that I saw a shell in air, the only shell in flight I have everseen. It was dropping to earth behind the parados and I had a distinctview of the missile before ducking to avoid the splinters flung out bythe explosion. Hundreds of shells have passed through the sky near meevery day, I could almost see them by their sound and felt I couldtrace the line made by them in their flight, but this was the onlytime I ever saw one. 

The hill land of Lorette stood up sullen on our right; in a basinscooped out on its face, a hollow not more than five hundred yardssquare we could see, night and day, an eternal artillery conflict inprogress, in the daylight by the smoke and in the dark by the flashesof bursting shells. It was an awe-inspiring and wonderful picture thistitanic struggle; when I looked on it, I felt that it was not good tosee--it was the face of a god. The mortal who gazed on it must die. But by night and day I spent most of my spare time in watching thesmoke of bursting shells and the flash of innumerable explosions. 

One morning, after six days in the trenches, I was seated on the (p. 244)parados blowing up an air pillow which had been sent to me by anEnglish friend and watching the fight up at Souchez when Bill came upto me. 

"Wot's that yer've got?" he asked. 

"An air pillow, " I answered. 

"'Ow much were yer rushed for it?"

"Somebody sent it to me, " I said. 

"To rest yer weary 'ead on?"

I nodded. 

"I like a fresh piller every night, " said Bill. 

"A fresh what?"

"A fresh brick. "

"How do you like these trenches?" I asked after a short silence. 

"Not much, " he answered. "They're all blurry flies and chalk. " Hegazed ruefully at the white sandbags and an army ration of cheeserolled up in a paper on which blow-flies were congregating. Chalk wasall over the place, the dug-outs were dug out of chalk, the sandbagswere filled with chalk, every bullet, bomb and shell whirled showersof fine powdery chalk into the air, chalk frittered away from theparapets fell down into our mess-tins as we drank our tea, therain-wet chalk melted to milk and whitened the barrels and actions (p. 245)of our rifles where they stood on the banquette, bayonets up to the sky. 

Looking northward when one dared to raise his head over the parapetfor a moment, could be seen white lines of chalk winding across a seaof green meadows splashed with daisies and scarlet poppies. Butterflies flitted from flower to flower and sometimes found theirway into our trench where they rested for a moment on the chalk bags, only to rise again and vanish over the fringes of green that vergedthe limits of our world. Three miles away rising lonely over thebeaten zone of emerald stood a red brick village, conspicuous by thespire of its church and an impudent chimney, with part of its sideblown away, that stood stiff in the air. A miracle that it had notfallen to pieces. Over the latrine at the back the flies were busy, their buzzing reminded me of the sound made by shell splinterswhizzing through the air. 

The space between the trenches looked like a beautiful garden, greenleaves hid all shrapnel scars on the shivered trees, thistles withmagnificent blooms rose in line along the parapet, grasses hung overthe sandbags of the parapet and seemed to be peering in at us askingif we would allow them to enter. The garden of death was a riot (p. 246)of colour, green, crimson, heliotrope and poppy-red. Even from amidstthe chalk bags, a daring little flower could be seen showing its face;and a primrose came to blossom under the eaves of our dug-out. Naturewas hard at work blotting out the disfigurement caused by man to theface of the country. 

At noon I sat in the dug-out where Bill was busy repairing a defect inhis mouth organ. The sun blazed overhead, and it was almost impossibleto write, eat or even to sleep. 

The dug-out was close and suffocating; the air stank of somethingputrid, of decaying flesh, of wasting bodies of French soldiers whohad fallen in a charge and were now rotting in the midst of the fairpoppy flowers. They lay as they fell, stricken headlong in the greatfrenzy of battle, their fingers wasted to the bone, still claspingtheir rifles or clenching the earth which they pulled from the groundin the mad agony of violent death. Now and again, mingled with thestench of death and decay, the breeze wafted into our dug-out an odourof flowers. 

The order came like a bomb flung into the trench and woke us up likean electric thrill. True we did not believe it at first, there (p. 247)are so many practical jokers in our ranks. Such an insane order! Hadthe head of affairs gone suddenly mad that such an order was issued. "All men get ready for a bath. Towels and soap are to be carried!!!"

"Where are we going to bathe?" I asked the platoon sergeant. 

"In the village at the rear, " he answered. 

"There's nobody there, nothing but battered houses, " I answered. "Andthe place gets shelled daily. "

"That doesn't matter, " said the platoon sergeant. "There's going to bea bath and a jolly good one for all. Hot water. "

We went out to the village at the rear, the Village of ShatteredHomes, which were bunched together under the wall of a ratherpretentious villa that had so far suffered very little from theeffects of the German artillery. As yet the roof and windows were allthat were damaged, the roof was blown in and the window glass wassmashed to pieces. 

We got a good bath, a cold spray whizzed from the nozzle of aserpentine hose, and a share of underclothing. The last we neededbadly for the chalk trenches were very verminous. We went back (p. 248)clean and wholesome, the bath put new life into us. 

That same evening, what time the star-shells began to flare and theflashes of the guns could be seen on the hills of Lorette, two of ourmen got done to death in their dug-out. A shell hit the roof andsmashed the pit-props down on top of the two soldiers. Death wasinstantaneous in both cases. 

CHAPTER XVIII (p. 249)

THE COVERING PARTY

 Along the road in the evening the brown battalions wind, With the trenches threat of death before, the peaceful homes behind; And luck is with you or luck is not, as the ticket of fate is drawn, The boys go up to the trench at dusk, but who will come back at dawn?

The darkness clung close to the ground, the spinney between our lineswas a bulk of shadow thinning out near the stars. A light breezescampered along the floor of the trench and seemed to be chasingsomething. The night was raw and making for rain; at midnight when myhour of guard came to an end I went to my dug-out, the spaciousconstruction, roofed with long wooden beams heaped with sandbags, which was built by the French in the winter season, what time men wereapt to erect substantial shelters, and know their worth. The platoonsergeant stopped me at the door. 

"Going to have a kip, Pat?" he asked. 

"If I'm lucky, " I answered. 

"Your luck's dead out, " said the sergeant. "You're to be one of a (p. 250)covering party for the Engineers. They're out to-night repairing thewire entanglements. "

"Any more of the Section going out?" I asked. 

"Bill's on the job, " I was told. The sergeant alluded to my mate, thevivacious Cockney, the spark who so often makes Section 3 in itsdullest mood, explode with laughter. 

Ten minutes later Bill and I, accompanied by a corporal and four otherriflemen, clambered over the parapet out on to the open field. We cameto the wire entanglements which ran along in front of the trench tento fifteen yards away from the reverse slope of the parapet. TheGerman artillery had played havoc with the wires some days prior toour occupation of the trench, the stakes had been battered down andmost of the defence had been smashed to smithereens. Bombarding wireentanglements seems to be an artillery pastime; when we smash those ofthe Germans they reply by smashing ours, then both sides repair thedamage only to start the game of demolition over again. 

The line of entanglements does not run parallel with the trench (p. 251)it covers, although when seen from the parapet its inner stakes seemalways to be about the same distance away from the nearest sandbags. But taken in relation to the trench opposite the entanglements arelaid with occasional V-shaped openings narrowing towards our trench. 

The enemy plan an attack. At dusk or dawn their infantry will make acharge over the open ground, raked with machine gun, howitzer, andrifle fire. Between the trenches is the beaten zone, the field ofdeath. The moment the attacking party pull down the sandbags from theparapet, its sole aim is to get to the other side. The men becomecreatures of instinct, mad animals with only one desire, that is toget to the other side where there is comparative safety. They dash upto a jumble of trip wires scattered broadcast over the field andthinning out to a point, the nearest point which they reach in theenemy's direction. Trip wires are the quicksands of the beaten zone, aman floundering amidst them gets lost. The attackers realize this andthe instinct which tells them of a certain amount of safety in thevicinity of an unfriendly trench urges them pell mell into theV-shaped recess that narrows towards our lines. Here the attackers (p. 252)are heaped up, a target of wriggling humanity; ready prey for theconcentrated fire of the rifles from the British trench. The narrowpart of the V becomes a welter of concentrated horror, the attackerstear at the wires with their hands and get ripped flesh from bone, mutilated on the barbs in the frensied efforts to get through. Thetragedy of an advance is painted red on the barbed wire entanglements. 

In one point our wires had been cut clean through by a concussionshell and the entanglement looked as if it had been frozen intoimmobility in the midst of a riot of broken wires and shattered posts. We passed through the lane made by the shell and flopped flat to earthon the other side when a German star-shell came across to inspect us. The world between the trenches was lit up for a moment. The wiresstood out clear in one glittering distortion, the spinney, full ofdark racing shadows, wailed mournfully to the breeze that passedthrough its shrapnel-scarred branches, white as bone where their barkhad been peeled away. In the mysteries of light and shade, in thethreat that hangs forever over men in the trenches there was a wildfascination. I was for a moment tempted to rise up and shout (p. 253)across to the German trenches, I am here! No defiance would be in theshout. It was merely a momentary impulse born of adventure thatintoxicates. Bill sprung to his feet suddenly, rubbing his face with aviolent hand; this in full view of the enemy's trench in a light thatillumined the place like a sun. 

"Bill, Bill!" we muttered hoarsely. 

"Well, blimey, that's a go, " he said coughing and spitting. "What 'aveI done, splunk on a dead 'un I flopped, a stinking corpse. 'E was'uggin' me, kissin' me. Oh! nark the game, ole stiff 'un, " said Bill, addressing the ground where I could perceive a bundle of dark clothes, striped with red and deep in the grass. "Talk about rotten eggsburstin' on your jor; they're not in it. "

The light of the star-shell waned and died away; the Corporal spoke toBill. 

"Next time a light goes up you be flat; you're giving the whole damnedshow away, " the Corporal said. "If you're spotted it's all up withus. "

We fixed swords clamping them into the bayonet standards and lay flaton the ground in the midst of dead bodies of French soldiers. Monthsbefore the French endeavoured to take the German trenches and got (p. 254)about half way across the field. There they stopped, mown down byrifle and machine gun fire and they lie there still, little bundles ofwasting flesh in the midst of the poppies. When the star-shells wentup I could see a face near me, a young face clean-shaven and very paleunder a wealth of curly hair. It was the face of a mere boy, the eyeswere closed as if the youth were only asleep. It looked as if theeffacing finger of decay had forborne from working its will on thehelpless thing. His hand still gripped the rifle, and the long bayoneton the standard shone when the light played upon it. It seemed as ifhe fell quietly to the ground, dead. Others, I could see, had died adeath of agony; they lay there in distorted postures, some with facesbattered out of recognition, others with their hands full of grass andclay as if they had torn up the earth in their mad, final frenzy. Nota nice bed to lie in during a night out on listening patrol. [4]

 [Footnote 4: The London Irish charged over this ground later, and entered Loos on Saturday, 25th September, 1915. ]

The Engineers were now at work just behind us, I could see their darkforms flitting amongst the posts, straightening the old ones, (p. 255)driving in fresh supports and pulling the wires taut. They worked asquietly as possible, but to our ears, tensely strained, the noise oflabour came like the rumble of artillery. The enemy must surely hearthe sound. Doubtless he did, but probably his own working parties werebusy just as ours were. In front when one of our star-shells wentacross I fancied that I could see dark forms standing motionless bythe German trench. Perhaps my eyes played me false, the objects mightbe tree-trunks trimmed down by shell fire. .. . 

The message came out from our trench and the Corporal passed it alonghis party. "On the right a party of the --th London are working. " Thiswas to prevent us mistaking them for Germans. All night longoperations are carried on between the lines, if daylight suddenly shotout about one in the morning what a scene would unfold itself in NoMan's Land; listening patrols marching along, Engineers busy with thewires, sanitary squads burying the dead and covering parties keepingwatch over all the workers. 

"Halt! who goes there?"

The order loud and distinct came from the vicinity of the German (p. 256)trench, then followed a mumbled reply and afterwards a scuffle, asound as of steel clashing in steel, and then subdued laughter. Whathad happened? Next day we heard that a sergeant and three men of the--th were out on patrol and went too near the enemy's lines. Suddenlythey were confronted by several dark forms with fixed bayonets and theusual sentry's challenge was yelled out in English. Believing that hehad fallen across one of his own outposts, the unsuspecting sergeantgave the password for the night, approached those who challenged himand was immediately made prisoner. Two others met with the same fate, but one who had been lagging at the rear got away and managed to getback to his own lines. Many strange things happen between the lines atnight; working parties have no love for the place and hundreds getkilled there. 

The slightest tinge of dawn was in the sky when our party slipped backover the parapet and stood to arms on the banquette and yawned out theconventional hour when soldiers await the attacks which so often beginat dawn. 

We go out often as working parties or listening patrols. 

From Souchez to Ypres the firing line runs through a land of (p. 257)stinking drains, level fields, and shattered villages. We know thosevillages, we have lived in them, we have been sniped at in theirstreets and shelled in the houses. We have had men killed in them, blown to atoms or buried in masonry, done to death by some damnableinstrument of war. 

In our trenches near Souchez you can see the eternal artilleryfighting on the hills of Lorette, up there men are flicked out ofexistence like flies in a hailstorm. The big straight road out of avillage runs through our lines into the German trenches and beyond. The road is lined with poplars and green with grass; by day you cansee the German sandbags from our trenches, by night you can hear thewind in the trees that bend towards one another as if in conversation. There is no whole house in the place; chimneys have been blown downand roofs are battered by shrapnel. But few of the people have goneaway, they have become schooled in the process of accommodation, andaccommodate themselves to a woeful change. They live with one foot onthe top step of the cellar stairs, a shell sends them scampering down;they sleep there, they eat there, in their underground home they (p. 258)wait for the war to end. The men who are too old to fight labour in aneighbouring mine, which still does some work although its chimney isshattered and its coal waggons are scraps of wood and iron on brokenrails. There are many graves by the church, graves of our boys, civilians' graves, children's graves, all victims of war. Children arethere still, merry little kids with red lips and laughing eyes. 

One day, when staying in the village, I met one, a dainty little dot, with golden hair and laughing eyes, a pink ribbon round a tress thathung roguishly over her left cheek. She smiled at me as she passedwhere I sat on the roadside under the poplars, her face was an angel'sset in a disarray of gold. In her hand she carried an empty jug, almost as big as herself and she was going to her home, one of theinhabited houses nearest the fighting line. The day had been a veryquiet one and the village took an opportunity to bask in the sun. Iwatched her go up the road tripping lightly on the grass, swinging herbig jug. Life was a garland of flowers for her, it was good to watchher to see her trip along; the sight made me happy. What caused theGerman gunner, a simple woodman and a father himself perhaps, (p. 259)to fire at that moment? What demon guided the shell? Who can say? Theshell dropped on the roadway just where the child was; I saw theexplosion and dropped flat to avoid the splinters, when I looked againthere was no child, no jug, where she had been was a heap of stones onthe grass and dark curls of smoke rising up from it. I hastenedindoors; the enemy were shelling the village again. 

Our billet is a village with shell-scarred trees lining its streets, and grass peeping over its fallen masonry, a few inn signs still swingand look like corpses hanging; at night they creak as if in agony. This place was taken from the Germans by the French, from the Frenchby the Germans and changed hands several times afterwards. The streetssaw many desperate hand to hand encounters; they are clean now but thevillage stinks, men were buried there by cannon, they lie in thecellars with the wine barrels, bones, skulls, fleshless hands stickingup over the bricks; the grass has been busy in its endeavour to cloakup the horror, but it will take nature many years to hide the ravagesof war. 

In another small village three kilometres from the firing line I haveseen the street so thick with flies that it was impossible to see (p. 260)the cobbles underneath. There we could get English papers the morningafter publication: for penny papers we paid three halfpence, forhalfpenny papers twopence! In a restaurant in the place we got adinner consisting of vegetable soup, fried potatoes, and egg omelette, salad, bread, beer, a sweet and a cup of _café au lait_ for fifteensous per man. There too on a memorable occasion we were paid the sumof ten francs on pay day. 

In a third village not far off six of us soldiers slept one night in acellar with a man, his wife and seven children, one a sucking babe. That night the roof of the house was blown in by a shell. In the sameplace my mate and I went out to a restaurant for dinner, and a youngFrenchman, a gunner, sat at our table. He came from the south, ashepherd boy from the foot hills of the Pyrenees. He shook hands withus, giving the left hand, the one next the heart, as a proof ofcomradeship when leaving. A shrapnel bullet caught him inside the doorand he fell dead on the pavement. Every stone standing or fallen inthe villages by the firing line has got a history, and a tragedyconnected with it. 

In some places the enemy's bullets search the main street by night (p. 261)and day; a journey from the rear to the trenches is made across theopen, and the eternal German bullet never leaves off searching for ourboys coming in to the firing line. You can rely on sandbagged safetyin the villages, but on the way from there to the trenches you merelytrust your luck; for the moment your life has gone out of yourkeeping. 

No civilian is allowed to enter one place, but I have seen a womanthere. We were coming in, a working party, from the trenches when thecolour of dawn was in the sky. We met her on the street opposite thepile of bricks that once was a little church: the spire of the churchwas blown off months ago and it sticks point downwards in a grave. Thewoman was taken prisoner. Who was she? Where did she come from? Noneof us knew, but we concluded she was a spy. Afterwards we heard thatshe was a native who had returned to have a look at her home. 

We were billeted at the rear of the village on the ground floor of acottage. Behind our billet was the open country where Nature, thegreat mother, was busy; the butterflies flitted over the soldiers' (p. 262)graves, the grass grew over unburied dead men, who seemed to besinking into the ground, apple trees threw out a wealth of blossomwhich the breezes flung broadcast to earth like young lives in thewhirlwind of war. We first came to the place at midnight; in themorning when we got up we found outside our door, in the midst of ajumble of broken pump handles and biscuit tins, fragments of chairs, holy pictures, crucifixes and barbed wire entanglements, a dead dogdwindling to dust, the hair falling from its skin and the white bonesshowing. As we looked on the thing it moved, its belly heaved as ifthe animal had gulped in a mouthful of air. We stared aghast and ourlaughter was not hearty when a rat scurried out of the carcase andsought safety in a hole of the adjoining wall. The dog was buried bythe Section 3. Four simple lines serve as its epitaph:--

 Here lies a dog as dead as dead, A Sniper's bullet through its head, Untroubled now by shots and shells, It rots and can do nothing else. 

The village where I write this is shelled daily, yesterday three men, two women and two children, all civilians, were killed. The (p. 263)natives have become almost indifferent to shell-fire. 

In the villages in the line of war between Souchez and Ypres strangethings happen and wonderful sights can be seen. 

CHAPTER XIX (p. 264)

SOUVENIR HUNTERS

 I have a big French rifle, its stock is riddled clean, And shrapnel smashed its barrel, likewise its magazine; I've carried it from A to X and back to A again, I've found it on the battlefield amidst the soldiers slain. A souvenir for blighty away across the foam, That's if the French authorities will let me take it home. 

Most people are souvenir hunters, but the craze for souvenirs hasnever affected me until now; at present I have a decent collection ofcurios, consisting amongst other things of a French rifle, which Itook from the hands of a dead soldier on the field near Souchez; alittle nickel boot, which was taken from the pack of a Bretonpiou-piou who was found dead by a trench in Vermelles--one of our menwho obtained this relic carried it about with him for many weeks untilhe was killed by a shell and then the boot fell into my hands. I havetwo percussion caps, one from a shell that came through the roof of adug-out and killed two of our boys, the other was gotten beside a deadlieutenant in a deserted house in Festubert. In addition to these (p. 265)I have many shell splinters that fell into the trench and landed at myfeet, rings made from aluminium timing-pieces of shells and severalother odds and ends picked up from the field of battle. Once I found asplendid English revolver--but that is a story. 

We were billeted in a model mining-village of red brick houses andterra cotta tiles, where every door is just like the one next to itand the whole place gives the impression of monotonous samenessrelieved here and there by a shell-shattered roof, a symbol of sorrowand wanton destruction. In this place of an evening children may beseen out of doors listening for the coming of the German shells andcounting the number that fall in the village. From our billets we wentout to the trenches by Vermelles daily, and cut the grass from thetrenches with reaping hooks. In the morning a white mist lay on themeadows and dry dung and dust rose from the roadway as we marched outto our labour. 

We halted by the last house in the village, one that stood almostintact, although the adjoining buildings were well nigh levelled tothe ground. My mate, Pryor, fixed his eyes on the villa. 

"I'm going in there, " he said pointing at the doors. (p. 266)

"Souvenirs?" I asked. 

"Souvenirs, " he replied. 

The two of us slipped away from the platoon and entered the building. On the ground floor stood a table on which a dinner was laid; anactive service dinner of soup made from soup tablets (2_d. _ each) thewrappers of which lay on the tiled floor, some tins of bully beef, opened, a loaf, half a dozen apples and an unopened tin of _café aulait_. The dinner was laid for four, although there were only threeforks, two spoons and two clasp knives, the latter were undoubtedlyused to replace table knives. Pryor looked under the table, thenturned round and fixed a pair of scared eyes on me, and beckoned to meto approach. I came to his side and saw under the table on the floor ahuman hand, severed from the arm at the wrist. Beside it lay aweb-equipment, torn to shreds, a broken range-finder and a Webleyrevolver, long of barrel and heavy of magazine. 

"A souvenir, " said Pryor. "It must have been some time since thatdinner was made; the bully smells like anything. "

"The shell came in there, " I said pointing at the window, the side (p. 267)of which was broken a little, "and it hit one poor beggar anyway. Nobody seems to have come in here since then. "

"We'll hide the revolver, " Pryor remarked, "and we'll come here for itto-night. "

We hid the revolver behind the door in a little cupboard in the wall;we came back for it two days later, but the weapon was gone though thehand still lay on the floor. What was the history of that house and ofthe officers who sat down to dinner? Will the tragedy ever be told?

I had an interesting experience near Souchez when our regiment washolding part of the line in that locality. On the way in was a singlehouse, a red brick villa, standing by the side of the communicationtrench which I used to pass daily when I went out to get water fromthe carts at the rear. One afternoon I climbed over the side andentered the house by a side door that looked over the German lines. The building was a conspicuous target for the enemy, but strange tosay, it had never been touched by shell fire; now and again bulletspeppered the walls, chipped the bricks and smashed the window-panes. On the ground floor was a large living-room with a big-bodied stovein the centre of the floor, religious pictures hung on the wall, (p. 268)a grandfather's clock stood in the niche near the door, the blindswere drawn across the shattered windows, and several chairs wereplaced round a big table near the stove. Upstairs in the bedrooms thebeds were made and in one apartment a large perambulator, with a dollflung carelessly on its coverlet, stood near the wall, the paper ofwhich was designed in little circles and in each circle were figuresof little boys and girls, hundreds of them, frivolous mites, absurdand gay. 

Another stair led up to the garret, a gloomy place bare under the redtiles, some of which were broken. Looking out through the aperture inthe roof I could see the British and German trenches drawn as if inchalk on a slate of green by an erratic hand, the hand of an idlechild. Behind the German trenches stood the red brick village of ----, with an impudent chimney standing smokeless in the air, and a burningmine that vomited clouds of thick black smoke over meadow-fieldssplashed with poppies. Shells were bursting everywhere over the grassand the white lines; the greenish grey fumes of lyddite, the whitesmoke of shrapnel rose into mid-air, curled away and died. On the leftof the village a road ran back into the enemy's land, and from (p. 269)it a cloud of dust was rising over the tree-tops; no doubt vehicles ofwar which I could not see were moving about in that direction. Istayed up in that garret for quite an hour full of the romance of mywatch and when I left I took my souvenir with me, a picture of theBlessed Virgin in a cedar frame. That night we placed it outside ourdug-out over the door. In the morning we found it smashed to pieces bya bullet. 

Daily I spent some time in the garret on my way out to the water-cart;and one day I found it occupied. Five soldiers and an officer werestanding at my peephole when I got up, with a large telescope fixed ona tripod and trained on the enemy's lines. The War IntelligenceDepartment had taken over the house for an observation post. 

"What do you want here?" asked the officer. 

Soldiers are ordered to keep to the trenches on the way out and in, none of the houses that line the way are to be visited. It was a casefor a slight prevarication. My water jar was out in the trench: Icarried my rifle and a bandolier. 

"I'm looking for a sniping position, " I said. (p. 270)

"You cannot stop here, " said the officer. "We've taken this placeover. Try some of the houses on the left. "

I cleared out. Three days later when on my usual errand I saw that theroof of my observation villa had been blown in. Nobody would be inthere now I concluded and ventured inside. The door which stood at thebottom of the garret stair was closed. I caught hold of the latch andpulled it towards me. The door held tight. As I struggled with it Ihad a sense of pulling against a detaining hand that strove to hide amystery, something fearful, from my eye. It swung towards me slowlyand a pile of bricks fell on my feet as it opened. Something dark andliquid oozed out under my boots. I felt myself slip on it and knewthat I stood on blood. All the way up the rubble-covered stairs therewas blood, it had splashed red on the railings and walls. Laths, plaster, tiles and beams lay on the floor above and in the midst ofthe jumble was a shattered telescope still moist with the blood ofmen. Had all been killed and were all those I had met a few daysbefore in the garret when the shell landed on the roof? It wasimpossible to tell. 

I returned to the dug-out meditating on the strange things that (p. 271)can be seen by him who goes souvenir-hunting between Souchez andYpres. As I entered I found Bill gazing mutely at some black liquid ina sooty mess-tin. 

"Some milk, Bill, " I said handing him the tin of Nestle's which hadjust come to me in a Gargantuan parcel from an English friend. 

"No milk, matey, " he answered, "I'm feelin' done up proper, I am. Cannot eat a bite. Tummy out of order, my 'ead spinnin' like a top. When's sick parade?" he asked. 

"Seven o'clock, " I said, "Is it as bad as that?"

"Worse than that, " he answered with a smile, "'Ave yer a cigarette tospare?"

"Yes, " I answered, fumbling in my pocket. 

"Well, give it to somebody as 'asn't got none, " said Bill, "I'm offthe smokin' a bit. "

The case was really serious since Bill could not smoke, a smokelesshour was for him a Purgatorial period, his favourite friend was hisfag. After tea I went with him to the dressing station, and Ted Vittleof Section 4 accompanied us. Ted's tummy was also out of order and hishead was spinning like a top. The men's equipment was carried (p. 272)out, men going sick from the trenches to the dressing-station at therear carry their rifles and all portable property in case they aresent off to hospital. The sick soldier's stuff always goes to hospitalwith him. 

I stood outside the door of the dressing-station while the two menwere in with the M. O. "What's wrong, Bill?" I asked when he came out. 

"My tempratoor's an 'undred and nine, " said my comrade. 

"A hundred and what?" I ejaculated. 

"'Undred point nine 'is was, " said Ted Vittle. "Mine's a 'undred pointeight. The Twentieth 'as 'ad lots of men gone off to 'orsp to-daysufferin' from the same thing. Pyraxis the M. O. Calls it. Trench feveris the right name. "

"Right?" interrogated Bill. 

"Well it's a name we can understand, " said Ted. 

"Are you going back to the trenches again?" I asked. 

"We're to sleep 'ere to-night in the cellar under the dressin'-station, "they told me. "In the mornin' we're to report to the doctor again. 'E's a bloke 'e is, that doctor. 'E says we're to take nothing (p. 273)but heggs and milk and the milk must be boiled. "

"Is the army going to supply it?"

"No blurry fear, " said Bill. "Even if we 'ad the brass and theappetite we can't buy any milk or heggs 'ere. "

I went back to the firing trench alone. Bill and Ted Vittle did notreturn the next day or the day after. Three weeks later Bill cameback. 

We were sitting in our dug-out at a village the bawl of a donkey fromSouchez, when a jew's harp, playing ragtime was heard outside. 

"Bill, " we exclaimed in a voice, and sure enough it was Bill back tous again, trig and tidy from hospital, in a new uniform, new boots andwith that air of importance which can only be the privilege of a manwho has seen strange sights in strange regions. 

"What's your temperature?" asked Stoner. 

"Blimey, it's the correct thing now, but it didn't arf go up anddown, " said Bill sitting down on the dug-out chair, our only one sincea shell dropped through the roof. Some days before B Company had heldthe dug-out and two of the boys were killed. "It's no fun the'orspital I can tell yer. "

"What sort of disease is Pyraxis?" asked Goliath. (p. 274)

"It's not 'arf bad, if you've got it bad, and it's not good whenyou've it only 'arf bad, " said Bill, adding, "I mean that if I 'ad itbad I would get off to blighty, but my case was only a light one, notso bad as Ted Vittle. 'E's not back yet, maybe it's a trip across theChannel for 'im. 'E was real bad when 'e walked down with me toMazingarbe. I was rotten too, couldn't smoke. It was sit down and restfor fifteen minutes then walk for five. Mazingarbe is only a mile andan 'arf from the dressing-station and it took us three hours to getdown; from there we took the motor-ambulance to the clearing hospital. There was a 'ot bath there and we were put to bed in a big 'ouse, blankets, plenty of them and a good bed. 'Twas a grand place to kipin. Bad as I was, I noticed that. "

"No stand-to at dawn?" I said. 

"Two 'ours before dawn we 'ad to stand-to in our blankets, matey, "said Bill. "The Germans began to shell the blurry place and 'twas upto us to 'op it. We went dozens of us to the rear in a 'bus. Shook us!We were rattled about like tins on cats' tails and dumped down atanother 'orsp about breakfast time. My tempratoor was up more (p. 275)than ever there; I almost burst the thremometur. And Ted! Blimey, yershould 'ave seen Ted! Lost to the wide, 'e was. 'E could 'ardly speak;but 'e managed to give me his mother's address and I was to write 'omea long letter to 'er when 'e went West. "

"Allowed to 'ave peace in that place! No fear; the Boches began toshell us, and they sent over fifty shells in 'arf an 'our. All troopswere ordered to leave the town and we went with the rest to a 'orspunder canvas in X----. 

"A nice quiet place X---- was, me and Ted was along with two others ina bell-tent and 'ere we began to get better. Our clothes were takenfrom us, all my stuff and two packets of fags and put into a locker. Idon't know what I was thinking of when I let the fags go. There wasone feller as had two francs in his trousers' pocket when 'e gave 'istrousers in and 'e got the wrong trousers back. 'E discovered that oneday when 'e was goin' to send the R. A. M. C. Orderly out for beer forall 'ands. 

"'Twas a 'ungry place X. We were eight days in bed and all we got wasmilk and once or twice a hegg. Damned little heggs they were; (p. 276)they must 'ave been laid by tomtits in a 'urry. I got into troubleonce; I climbed up the tent-pole one night just to 'ave a song on myown, and when I was on the top down comes the whole thing and I landedon Ted Vittle's bread basket. 'Is tempratoor was up to a 'undred andone point five next mornin'. The doctor didn't 'arf give me a lookwhen 'e 'eard about me bein' up the pole. "

"Was he a nice fellow, the doctor?" I asked. 

"Not 'arf, 'e wasn't, " said Bill. "When I got into my old uniform 'elooked 'ard at my cap. You remember it boys; 'twas more like aragman's than a soldier of the King's. Then 'e arst me: ''Ave yer seenmuch war?' 'Not 'arf, I 'avent, ' I told him. 'I thought so, ' 'e said, 'judgin' by yer cap. ' And 'e told the orderly to indent me for a brandnew uniform. And 'e gave me two francs to get a drink when I wasleavin'. "

"Soft-hearted fellow, " said Goliath. 

"Was he!" remarked Bill. "Yer should be there when 'e came in onemornin'. "

"'Ow d'ye feel?" he asked Ted Vittle. 

"Not fit at all, sir, " says Ted. 

"Well carry on, " said the doctor. 

I looked at Ted, Ted looked at me and 'e tipped me the wink. (p. 277)

"'Ow d'ye feel, " said the doctor to me. 

"Not fit at all, " I answers. 

"Back to duties, " 'e said and my jaw dropped with a click like a riflebolt. 'Twas ten minutes after that when 'e gave me the two francs. "

"I saw Spud 'Iggles, 'im that was wounded at Givenchy;" Bill informedus after he had lit a fresh cigarette. 

"'Ole Spud!"

"'Ows Spud?"

"Not so bad, yer know, " said Bill, answering our last question. "'E'sgot a job. "

"A good one?" I queried. 

"Not 'arf, " Bill said. "'E goes round with the motor car that goes toplaces where soldiers are billeted and gathers up all the ammunition, bully beef tins, tins of biscuits and everything worth anything that'sleft behind--"

"Bill Teake. Is Bill Teake there?" asked a corporal at the door of thedug-out. 

"I'm 'ere, old Sawbones, " said Bill, "wot d'ye want me for?"

"It's your turn on sentry, " said the corporal. 

"Oh! blimey, that's done it!" grumbled Bill. "I feel my tempratoor (p. 278)goin' up again. It's always some damn fatigue or another in thiscursed place. I wonder when will I 'ave the luck to go sick again. "

CHAPTER XX (p. 279)

THE WOMEN OF FRANCE

 Lonely and still the village lies, The houses asleep and the blinds all drawn. The road is straight as the bullet flies, And the east is touched with the tinge of dawn. 

 Shadowy forms creep through the night, Where the coal-stacks loom in their ghostly lair; A sentry's challenge, a spurt of light, A scream as a woman's soul takes flight Through the quivering morning air. 

We had been working all morning in a cornfield near an _estaminet_ onthe La Bassée Road. The morning was very hot, and Pryor and I feltvery dry; in fact, when our corporal stole off on the heels of asergeant who stole off, we stole off to sin with our superiors bydrinking white wine in an _estaminet_ by the La Bassée Road. 

"This is not the place to dig trenches, " said the sergeant when weentered. 

"We're just going to draw out the plans of the new traverse, " Pryorexplained. "It is to be made on a new principle, and a rifleman onsentry-go can sleep there and get wind of the approach of a (p. 280)sergeant by the vibration of stripes rubbing against the walls of thetrench. "

"Every man in the battalion must not be in here, " said the sergeantlooking at the khaki crowd and the full glasses. "I can't allow it andthe back room empty. "

Pryor and I took the hint and went to the low roofed room in the rear, where we found two persons, a woman and a man. The woman was sweatingover a stove, frying cutlets and the man was sitting on the floorpeeling potatoes into a large bucket. He was a thickset lump of afellow, with long, hairy arms, dark heavy eyebrows set firm oversharp, inquisitive eyes, a snub nose, and a long scar stretching fromthe butt of the left ear up to the cheekbone. He wore a nondescriptpair of loose baggy trousers, a fragment of a shirt and a pair ofbedroom slippers. He peeled the potatoes with a knife, a longrapier-like instrument which he handled with marvellous dexterity. 

"Digging trenches?" he asked, hurling a potato into the bucket. 

I understand French spoken slowly, Pryor, who was educated in Paris, speaks French and he told the potato-peeler that we had been at worksince five o'clock that morning. 

"The Germans will never get back here again unless as prisoners. " (p. 281)

"They might thrust us back; one never knows, " said Pryor. 

"Thrust us back! Never!" The potato swept into the bucket with a whizzlike a spent bullet. "Their day has come! Why? Because they're beaten, our 75 has beaten them. That's it: the 75, the little love. Pip! pip!pip! pip! Four little imps in the air one behind the other. Nothingcan stand them. Bomb! one lands in the German trench. _Plusieursmorts, plusieurs blessés. _ Run! Some go right, some left. The secondshot lands on the right, the third on the left, the fourth finishesthe job. The dead are many; other guns are good, but none so good asthe 75. "

"What about the gun that sent this over?"

Pryor, as he spoke, pointed at the percussion cap of one of the giganticshells with which the Germans raked La Bassée Road in the early stagesof the war, what time the enemy's enthusiasm for destruction had notthe nice discrimination that permeates it now. A light shrapnel shellis more deadly to a marching platoon than the biggest "Jack Johnson. "The shell relic before us, the remnant of a mammoth Krupp design, (p. 282)was cast on by a shell in the field heavy with ripening corn and rye, opposite the doorway. When peace breaks out, and holidays to the sceneof the great war become fashionable, the woman of the _estaminet_ isgoing to sell the percussion cap to the highest bidder. There are manymementos of the great fight awaiting the tourists who come this waywith a long purse, "après la guerre. " At present a needy urchin willsell the nose-cap of a shell, which has killed multitudes of men andhorses, for a few sous. Officers, going home on leave, deal largelywith needy French urchins who live near the firing line. 

"A great gun, the one that sent that, " said the Frenchman, digging theclay from the eye of a potato and looking at the percussion-cap whichlay on the mantelpiece under a picture of the Virgin and Child. "Butcompared with the 75, it is nothing; no good. The big shell comesboom! It's in no hurry. You hear it and you're into your dug-outbefore it arrives. It is like thunder, which you hear and you're inshelter when the rain comes. But the 75, it is lightning. It comessilently, it's quicker than its own sound. "

"Do you work here?" asked Pryor. (p. 283)

"I work here, " said the potato-peeler. 

"In a coal-mine?"

"Not in a coal-mine, " was the answer. "I peel potatoes. "

"Always?"

"Sometimes, " said the man. "I'm out from the trenches on leave forseven days. First time since last August. Got back from Souchezto-day. "

"Oh!" I ejaculated. 

"Oh!" said Pryor. "Seen some fighting?"

"Not much, " said the man, "not too much. " His eyes lit up as with fireand he sent a potato stripped clean of its jacket up to the roof butwith such precision that it dropped down straight into the bucket. "First we went south and the Germans came across up north. 'Twas turnabout and up like mad; perched on taxis, limbers, ambulance waggons, anything. We got into battle near Paris. The Boches came in clusters, they covered the ground like flies on the dead at Souchez. The 75'scame into work there. 'Twas wonderful. Pip! pip! pip! pip! Men werecut down, wiped out in hundreds. When the gun was useless--guns hadshort lives and glorious lives there--a new one came into play (p. 284)and killed, killed, until it could stand the strain no longer. "

"Much hand-to-hand fighting?" asked Pryor. 

"The bayonet! Yes!" The potato-peeler thrust his knife through apotato and slit it in two. "The Germans said 'Eugh! Eugh! Eugh!' whenwe went for them like this. " He made several vicious prods at animaginary enemy. "And we cut them down. "

He paused as if at a loss for words, and sent his knife whirling intothe air where it spun at an alarming rate. I edged my chair nearer thedoor, but the potato-peeler, suddenly standing upright, caught theweapon by the haft as it circled and bent to lift a fresh potato. 

"What is that for?" asked Pryor, pointing to a sword wreathed in agarland of flowers, tattooed on the man's arm. 

"The rapier, " said the potato-peeler. "I'm a fencer, a master-fencer;fenced in Paris and several places. "

The woman of the house, the man's wife, had been buzzing round like abee, droning out in an incoherent voice as she served the customers. Now she came up to the master-fencer, looked at him in the face for asecond, and then looked at the bucket. The sweat oozed from her (p. 285)face like water from a sponge. 

"Hurry, and get the work done, " she said to her husband, then sheturned to us. "You're keeping him from work, " she stuttered, "you two, chattering like parrots. Allez-vous en! Allez-vous en!"

We left the house of the potato-peeler and returned to our digging. The women of France are indeed wonderful. 

That evening Bill came up to me as I was sitting on the banquette. Inhis hand was an English paper that I had just been reading and in hiseye was wrath. 

"The 'ole geeser's fyce is in this 'ere thing again, " he saidscornfully. "Blimy! it's like the bad weather, it's everywhere. "

"Whose face do you refer to?" I asked my friend. 

"This Jimace, " was the answer and Bill pointed to the photo of awell-known society lady who was shown in the act of escorting awounded soldier along a broad avenue of trees that tapered away to apoint where an English country mansion showed like a doll's house inthe distance. "Every pyper I open she's in it; if she's not makin'socks for poor Tommies at the front, she's tyin' bandages on (p. 286)wounded Tommies at 'ome. "

"There's nothing wrong in that, " I said, noting the sarcasm in Bill'svoice. 

"S'pose its natural for 'er to let everybody know what she does, likea 'en that lays a negg, " my mate answered. "She's on this pyper orthat pyper every day. She's learnin' nursin' one day, learnin' todrive an ambulance the next day, she doesn't carry a powder puff in'er vanity bag at present----"

"Who said so?" I asked. 

"It's 'ere in black and white, " said Bill. "'Er vanity bag 'as givenplace to a respirator, an' instead of a powder puff she now carries anantiskeptic bandage. It makes me sick; it's all the same with women inEngland. 'Ere's another picture called 'Bathin' as usual. ' A dozen ofgirls out in the sea (jolly good legs some of 'em 'as, too) 'avin' abit of a frisky. Listen what it says: 'Despite the trying times theEnglish girls are keepin' a brave 'eart----' Oh! 'ang it, Pat, they'renothin' to the French girls, them birds at 'ome. "

"What about that girl you knew at St. Albans?" I asked. "You rememberhow she slid down the banisters and made toffee. "

"She wasn't no class, you know, " said Bill. (p. 287)

"She never answered the verse you sent from Givenchy, I suppose, " Iremarked. 

"It's not that----"

"Did she answer your letter saying she reciprocated your sentiments?"I asked. 

"Reshiperate your grandmother, Pat!" roared Bill. "Nark that language, I say. Speak that I can understand you. Wait a minute till Ireshiperate that, " he suddenly exclaimed pressing a charge into hisrifle magazine and curving over the parapet. He sent five shots in thedirection from which he supposed the sniper who had been potting at usall day, was firing. Then he returned to his argument. 

"You've seen that bird at the farm in Mazingarbe?" he asked. 

"Yes, " I replied. "Pryor said that her ankles were abnormally thick. "

"Pryor's a fool, " Bill exclaimed. 

"But they really looked thick----"

"You're a bigger fool than 'im!"

"I didn't know you had fallen in love with the girl, " I said "How didit happen?"

"Blimey, I'm not in love, " said my mate, "but I like a girl with agood 'eart. Twas out in the horchard in the farm I first met 'er. (p. 288)I was out pullin' apples, pinchin' them if you like to say so, and Iwas shakin' the apples from the branches. I had to keep my eyes on thefarm to see that nobody seen me while I shook. It takes a devil of alot of strength to rumble apples off a tree when you're shakin' atrunk that's stouter than the bread basket of a Bow butcher. All atonce I saw the girl of the farm comin' runnin' at me with a stick. Round to the other side of the tree I ran like lightnin', and after meshe comes. Then round to the other side went I----"

"Which side?" I asked. 

"The side she wasn't on, " said Bill. "After me she came and round toher side I 'opped----"

"Who was on the other side now?" I inquired. 

"I took good care that she was always on the other side until I sawwhat she was up to with the stick, " said Bill. "But d'yer know whatthe stick was for? 'Twas to help me to bring down the apples. Savve. They're great women, the women of France, " concluded my mate. 

The women of France! what heroism and fortitude animates them in everyshell-shattered village from Souchez to the sea! What labours (p. 289)they do in the fields between the foothills of the Pyrenees and theChurch of ----, where the woman nearest the German lines sells rumunder the ruined altar! The plough and sickle are symbols of peace andpower in the hands of the women of France in a land where men destroyand women build. The young girls of the hundred and one villages whichfringe the line of destruction, proceed with their day's work undershell fire, calm as if death did not wait ready to pounce on them atevery corner. 

I have seen a woman in one place take her white horse from the pasturewhen shells were falling in the field and lead the animal out againwhen the row was over; two of her neighbours were killed in the samefield the day before. One of our men spoke to her and pointed out thatthe action was fraught with danger. "I am convinced of that, " shereplied. "It is madness to remain here, " she was told, and she asked"Where can I go to?" During the winter the French occupied the trenchesnearer her home; her husband fought there, but the French have gonefurther south now and our men occupy their place in dug-out and trenchbut not in the woman's heart. "The English soldiers have come and (p. 290)my husband had to go away, " she says. "He went south beyond Souchez, and now he's dead. "

The woman, we learned, used to visit her husband in his dug-out andbring him coffee for breakfast and soup for dinner; this in winterwhen the slush in the trenches reached the waist and when soldierswere carried out daily suffering from frostbite. 

A woman sells _café noir_ near Cuinchy Brewery in a jumble of bricksthat was once her home. Once it was _café au lait_ and it cost foursous a cup, she only charges three sous now since her cow got shot inthe stomach outside her ramshackle _estaminet_. Along with a few matesI was in the place two months ago and a bullet entered the door andsmashed the coffee pot; the woman now makes coffee in a biscuit tin. 

The road from our billet to the firing line is as uncomfortable as aroad under shell fire can be, but what time we went that way nightlyas working parties, we met scores of women carrying furniture awayfrom a deserted village behind the trenches. The French militaryauthorities forbade civilians to live there and drove them back tovillages that were free from danger. But nightly they came back, contrary to orders, and carried away property to their temporary (p. 291)homes. Sometimes, I suppose they took goods that were not entirelytheir own, but at what risk! One or two got killed nightly and manywere wounded. However, they still persisted in coming back andcarrying away beds, tables, mirrors and chairs in all sorts of queerconveyances, barrows, perambulators and light spring-carts drawn bystrong intelligent dogs. 

"They are great women, the women of France, " as Bill Teake remarks. 

CHAPTER XXI (p. 292)

IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT

 "What do you do with your rifle, son?" I clean it every day, And rub it with an oily rag to keep the rust away; I slope, present and port the thing when sweating on parade. I strop my razor on the sling; the bayonet stand is made For me to hang my mirror on. I often use it, too, As handle for the dixie, sir, and lug around the stew. "But did you ever fire it, son?" Just once, but never more. I fired it at a German trench, and when my work was o'er The sergeant down the barrel glanced, and looked at me and said, "Your hipe is dirty, sloppy Jim; an extra hour's parade!"

The hour was midnight. Over me and about me was the wonderful Frenchsummer night; the darkness, blue and transparent, splashed withstar-shells, hung around me and gathered itself into a dark streak onthe floor of the trench beneath the banquette on which I stood. Awayon my right were the Hills of Lorette, Souchez, and the Labyrinthwhere big guns eternally spoke, and where the searchlights now touchedthe heights with long tremulous white arms. To my left the star-shellsrose and fell in brilliant riot above the battle-line that (p. 293)disfigured the green meadows between my trench and Ypres, and out onmy front a thousand yards away were the German trenches with the deadwasting to clay amid the poppy-flowers in the spaces between. Thedug-out, in which my mates rested and dreamt, lay silent in the dunshadows of the parados. 

Suddenly a candle was lit inside the door, and I could see ourcorporal throw aside the overcoat that served as blanket and place thetip of a cigarette against the spluttering flame. Bill slept besidethe corporal's bed, his head on a bully beef tin, and one naked arm, sunned and soiled to a khaki tint, lying slack along the earthenfloor. The corporal came out puffing little curls of smoke into thenight air. 

"Quiet?" he asked. 

"Dull enough, here, " I answered. "But there's no peace up by Souchez. "

"So I can hear, " he answered, flicking the ash from his cigarette andgazing towards the hills where the artillery duel was raging. "Havethe working parties come up yet?" he asked. 

"Not yet, " I answered, "but I think I hear men coming now. "

They came along the trench, about two hundred strong, engineers (p. 294)and infantry, men carrying rifles, spades, coils of barbed wire, wooden supports, &c. They were going out digging on a new sap andputting up fresh wire entanglements. This work, when finished, wouldbring our fire trench three hundred yards nearer the enemy. Needlessto say, the Germans were engaged on similar work, and they weredigging out towards our lines. 

The working party came to a halt; and one of them sat down on thebanquette at my feet, asked for a match and lit a cigarette. 

"You're in the village at the rear?" I said. 

"We're reserves there, " he answered. "It's always working-parties; atnight and at day. Sweeping gutters and picking papers and bits of stewfrom the street. Is it quiet here?"

"Very quiet, " I answered. "We've only had five killed and nine woundedin six days. How is your regiment getting along?"

"Oh, not so bad, " said the man; "some go west at times, but it's whatone has to expect out here. "

The working party were edging off, and some of the men were clamberingover the parapet. 

"Hi! Ginger!" someone said in a loud whisper, "Ginger Weeson; (p. 295)come along at once!"

The man on the banquette got to his feet, put out his cigarette andplaced the fag-end in his cartridge pouch. He would smoke this when hereturned, on the neutral ground between the lines a lighted cigarettewould mean death to the smoker. I gave Ginger Weeson a leg over theparapet and handed him his spade when he got to the other side. Myhour on sentry-go was now up and I went into my dug-out and wasimmediately asleep. 

I was called again at one, three-quarters of an hour later. 

"What's up?" I asked the corporal who wakened me. 

"Oh, there's a party going down to the rear for rations, " I was told. "So you've got to take up sentry-go till stand-to; that'll be for anhour or so. You're better out in the air now for its beginning tostink everywhere, but the dug-out is the worst place of all. "

So saying, the corporal entered the dug-out and stretched himself onthe floor; he was going to have a sleep despite his mean opinion ofthe shelter. 

The stench gathers itself in the early morning, in that chill (p. 296)hour which precedes the dawn one can almost see the smell ooze fromthe earth of the firing line. It is penetrating, sharp, and well-nightangible, the odour of herbs, flowers, and the dawn mixed with thestench of rotting meat and of the dead. You can taste it as it entersyour mouth and nostrils, it comes in slowly, you feel it crawl up yournose and sink with a nauseous slowness down the back of the throatthrough the windpipe and into the stomach. 

I leant my arms on the sandbags and looked across the field; I fanciedI could see men moving in the darkness, but when the star-shells wentup there was no sign of movement out by the web of barbed-wireentanglements. The new sap with its bags of earth stretched out chalkywhite towards the enemy; the sap was not more than three feet deepyet, it afforded very little protection from fire. Suddenly risingeerie from the space between the lines, I heard a cry. A harrowing"Oh!" wrung from a tortured soul, then a second "Oh!" ear-splitting, deafening. Something must have happened, one of the working party washit I knew. A third "Oh!" followed, weak it was and infantile, thenintense silence wrapped up everything as in a cloak. But only for (p. 297)a moment. The enemy must have heard the cry for a dozen star-shellsshot towards us and frittered away in sparks by our barbed-wireentanglements. There followed a second of darkness and then anexplosion right over the sap. The enemy were firing shrapnel shells onthe working party. Three, four shells exploded simultaneously out infront. I saw dark forms rise up and come rushing into shelter. Therewas a crunching, a stumbling and a gasping as if for air. Boots struckagainst the barbed entanglements, and like trodden mice, the wiressqueaked in protest. I saw a man, outlined in black against the glowof a star-shell, struggling madly as he endeavoured to loose hisclothing from the barbs on which it caught. There was a ripping andtearing of tunics and trousers. .. . A shell burst over the men againand I saw two fall; one got up and clung to the arm of a mate, theother man crawled on his belly towards the parapet. 

In their haste they fell over the parapet into the trench, several ofthem. Many had gone back by the sap, I could see them racing alongcrouching as they ran. Out in front several forms were bending overthe ground attending to the wounded. From my left the message (p. 298)came "Stretcher-bearers at the double. " And I passed it along. 

Two men who had scrambled over the parapet were sitting on mybanquette, one with a scratched forehead, the other with a bleedingfinger. Their mates were attending to them binding up the wounds. 

"Many hurt?" I asked. 

"A lot 'ave copped a packet, " said the man with the bleeding finger. 

"We never 'eard the blurry things come, did we?" he asked his mates. 

"Never 'eard nothin', we didn't till the thing burst over us, " said avoice from the trench. "I was busy with Ginger----"

"Ginger Weeson?" I enquired. 

"That's 'im, " was the reply. "Did yer 'ear 'im yell? Course yer did;ye'd 'ave 'eard 'im over at La Bassée. "

"What happened to him?" I asked. 

"A bullet through 'is belly, " said the voice. "When 'e roared I put my'and on 'is mouth and 'e gave me such a punch. I was nearly angry, and'im in orful pain. Pore Ginger! Not many get better from a wound likehis one. "

Their wounds dressed, the men went away; others came by carrying (p. 299)out the stricken; many had fractured limbs, one was struck on theshoulder, another in the leg and one I noticed had several teethknocked away. 

The working-party had one killed and fifty-nine wounded in themorning's work; some of the wounded, amongst them, Ginger Weeson, diedin hospital. 

The ration-party came back at two o'clock jubilant. The post arrivedwhen the men were in the village and many bulky parcels came in forus. Meals are a treat when parcels are bulky. We would have a finebreakfast. 

CHAPTER XXII (p. 300)

ROMANCE

 The young recruit is apt to think Of war as a romance; But he'll find its boots and bayonets When he's somewhere out in France. 

When the young soldier takes the long, poplar-lined road from ---- hisheart is stirred with the romance of his mission. It is morning and heis bound for the trenches; the early sunshine is tangled in thebranches, and silvery gossamer, beaded with iridescent jewels of dew, hang fairylike from the green leaves. Birds are singing, crickets arethridding in the grass and the air is full of the minute clamouring, murmuring and infinitesimal shouting of little living things. Cool, mysterious shadows are cast like intricate black lace upon theroadway, light is reflected from the cobbles in the open spaces, andon, on, ever so far on, the white road runs straight as an arrow intothe land of mystery, the Unknown. 

In front is the fighting line, where trench after trench, wayward (p. 301)as rivers, wind discreetly through meadow and village. By day you canmark it by whirling lyddite fumes rising from the ground, and puffs ofsmoke curling in the air; at night it is a flare of star-shells andlurid flamed explosions colouring the sky line with the lights ofdeath. 

Under the moon and stars, the line of battle, seen from a distance, isa red horizon, ominous and threatening, fringing a land of brokenhomes, ruined villages, and blazing funeral pyres. There the mirth ofyesteryear lives only in a soldier's dreams, and the harvest of lastautumn rots with withering men on the field of death and decay. 

Nature is busy through it all, the grasses grow green over the dead, and poppies fringe the parapets where the bayonets glisten, theskylarks sing their songs at dawn between the lines, the frogs chucklein the ponds at dusk, the grasshoppers chirrup in the dells where thewild iris, jewel-starred, bends mournfully to the breezes of night. Init all, the watching, the waiting, and the warring, is the mystery, the enchantment, and the glamour of romance; and romance is dear tothe heart of the young soldier. 

I have looked towards the horizon when the sky was red-rimmed with (p. 302)the lingering sunset of midsummer and seen the artillery rip theheavens with spears of flame, seen the star-shells burst into fire anddrop showers of slittering sparks to earth, seen the pale mists ofevening rise over black, mysterious villages, woods, houses, gun-emplacements, and flat meadows, blue in the evening haze. 

Aeroplanes flew in the air, little brown specks, heeling at times andcatching the sheen of the setting sun, when they glimmered like flame. Above, about, and beneath them were the white and dun wreathes ofsmoke curling and streaming across the face of heaven, the smoke ofbursting explosives sent from earth to cripple the fliers in mid-air. 

Gazing on the battle struggle with all its empty passion and deadlyhatred, I thought of the worshipper of old who looked on the face ofGod, and, seeing His face, died. And the scene before me, like theCountenance of the Creator, was not good for mortal eye. 

He who has known and felt the romance of the long night marches cannever forget it. The departure from barn billets when the blue eveningsky fades into palest saffron, and the drowsy ringing of church (p. 303)bells in the neighbouring village calling the worshippers to evensong;the singing of the men who swing away, accoutred in the harness ofwar; the lights of little white houses beaming into the darkness; thestars stealing silently out in the hazy bowl of the sky; the trees bythe roadside standing stiff and stark in the twilight as if listeningand waiting for something to take place; the soft, warm night, halfmoonlight and half mist, settling over mining villages with theirchimneys, railways, signal lights, slag-heaps, rattling engines anddusty trucks. 

There is a quicker throbbing of the heart when the men arrive at thecrest of the hill, well known to all, but presenting fresh aspectsevery time the soldier reaches its summit, that overlooks the firingline. 

Ahead, the star-shells, constellations of green, electric white, andblue, light the scenes of war. From the ridge of the hill, downwardstowards an illimitable plain, the road takes its way through aghost-world of ruined homes where dark and ragged masses of brokenroof and wall stand out in blurred outlines against indistinct andformless backgrounds. 

A gun is belching forth murder and sudden death from an (p. 304)emplacement on the right; in a spinney on the left a battery is noisyand the flashes from there light up the cluster of trees that standhuddled together as if for warmth. Vehicles of war lumber along theroad, field-kitchens, gun-limbers, water-carts, motor-ambulances, andRed Cross waggons. Men march towards us, men in brown, bearing riflesand swords, and pass us in the night. A shell bursts near, and thereis a sound as of a handful of peas being violently flung to theground. 

For the night we stop in a village where the branches of the trees areshrapnelled clean of their leaves, and where all the rafters of thehouses are bared of their covering of red tiles. A wind may rise whenyou're dropping off to sleep on the stone flags of a cellar, and thenyou can hear the door of the house and of nearly every house in theplace creaking on its hinges. The breeze catches the telephone wireswhich run from the artillery at rear to their observation stations, and the wires sing like light shells travelling through space. 

At dawn you waken to the sound of anti-aircraft guns firing ataeroplanes which they never bring down. The bullets, falling back fromexploding shells, swish to the earth with a sound like burning (p. 305)magnesium wires and split a tile if any is left, or crack a skull, ifany is in the way, with the neatest dispatch. It is wise to remain inshelter until the row is over. 

Outside, the birds are merry on the roofs; you can hear them singdefiantly at the lone cat that watches them from the grassy spot whichwas once a street. Spiders' webs hang over the doorways, many flieshave come to an untimely end in the glistening snares, poor littleblack, helpless things. Here and there lies a broken crucifix and atorn picture of the Holy Family, the shrines that once stood at thestreet corners are shapeless heaps of dust and weeds and the villagechurch is in ruins. 

No man is allowed to walk in the open by day; a German observationballoon, a big banana of a thing, with ends pointing downwards standshigh over the earth ten kilometres away and sees all that takes placein the streets. 

There is a soldiers' cemetery to rear of the last block of buildingswhere the dead have been shovelled out of earth by shell fire. In thisvillage the dead are out in the open whilst the quick are underground. 

How fine it is to leave the trenches at night after days of (p. 306)innumerable fatigues and make for a hamlet, well back, where beer isgood and where soups and salads are excellent. When the feet are soreand swollen, and when the pack-straps cut the shoulder like a knife, the journey may be tiring, but the glorious rest in a musty old barn, with creaking stairs and cobwebbed rafters, amply compensates for allthe strain of getting there. 

Lazily we drop into the straw, loosen our puttees and shoes and lighta soothing cigarette from our little candles. The whole barn is achamber of mysterious light and shade and strange rustlings. Theflames of the candles dance on the walls, the stars peep through theroof. Eyes, strangely brilliant under the shadow of the brows, meetone another inquiringly. 

"Is this not a night?" they seem to ask. "The night of all the world?"

Apart from that, everybody is quiet, we lie still resting, resting. Probably we shall fall asleep as we drop down, only to wake again whenthe cigarettes burn to the fingers. We can take full advantage of arest, as a rest is known to the gloriously weary. 

There is romance, there is joy in the life of a soldier. 

THE END.