Introductory material (continued 2)

The dawn was at hand, the dawn of Christmas Day. Fitzgerald was standing on the firestep looking over No Man's Land towards the enemy's trenches. It was his hour on sentry-go. The rain was still falling, and his hands and feet felt very cold, but he was powerless to restore any warmth to his body by moving about. To leave the firestep for a moment was dangerous. He knew that if he stuck in the mud of the trench he could not extricate himself, for he felt utterly worn out. He had been warm enough when he went on watch owing to the rum which he had drunk, but now he was shivering as if his whole being had been stricken with ague. He tried to warm his legs by striking one against the other, but his feet felt so heavy that he desisted after two or three ineffectual endeavours to release them from the mud. The slightest movement was a monstrous futility, and now that it had become so difficult to move he did not want to remain still, and he had the greatest desire in the world to be free-footed and doing something.

The Germans were shelling the sector on the right, and the chill, wet morning was lit up by the lurid flashes of bursting explosives. The air was full of the rumbling and crashing of the conflict; shells sped across the trench, careering towards some distant objective, probably the village, where old Bowdy was routing out the essentials for a Christmas dinner. And Bowdy had not returned yet; some nine hours had gone by since he departed on his mission.

"Probably he has got blown to pieces," Fitzgerald muttered. "Poor old Bowdy."

Then he passed, without further thought of Bowdy, to memories which came into his head at random. He thought of his home, away up a little glen in Galway, of the neighbours there, of Doalty Fadhan, the great gambler, who always won when he turned his coat outside in, of Eamon Hudagh, who got drunk at Glenagh Fair and lost his clothes somewhere at night; in the morning he came across the hills in a red flannel petticoat; of Paddy Brogan who cleared out the same fair with a stone in the foot of a woman's stocking. "I wish I was in Glenagh now," Fitzgerald said. "A good turf fire, a bit and a sup and the neighbours coming in for the night's raking." Then all these memories and desires floated together and jumbled themselves up in his head, and he fell asleep. He was awakened by a feeling that everything was not as it should be. For the unusual there was only one place to look, out on his front, and his eyes were already fixed on the grey, formless level which lay between his trench and the enemy's. Nothing changed there, everything just.... Then Fitzgerald saw a huge bulk take shape on his right front, twenty yards from the trench and fifty yards away from the spot where he stood. The bulk rose upright, like a gigantic monster of some pre-Adamite age, paused for a second as if considering something, then it burst in twain, and Fitzgerald flopped down into the mucky trench, half blinded and deafened by the flash and thunder of the exploding mine.

The earth had vomited its entrails out, a million rocks rioted through the air and ricochetted off the parapet; the dawn was thick with flying rubbish, the greater part of which seemed to be falling into the trench, dropping with a sickly splosh into the muck. The world was falling down around the ears of the Irishman.

"Out and man the mine crater!"

The order came along the trench like a half strangled whisper. Fitzgerald rose from the muck and spluttered the message along to the next bay, then gripped his rifle and clambered up and across the parapet.

Most of the men were already out and rushing towards the crater of the mine. Fitzgerald had a vivid impression of flying figures in sheepskin coats, of rifles in air, of bursting shells, of men stumbling, falling and rising, of hoarse-voiced oaths and imprecations, of queries and answers. "Not our mine, is it?" "I thought we were too far apart." "Are we to get into the blurry 'ole 'fore the gas clears away?" were a few of the remarks which came to his ears.

A corporal halted near him and shouted something about the risk the men were running. "We'll be poisoned by the fumes in the crater," he said. "We're coming across too soon. Far too soon," he muttered; "far too blurry soon!"

But no one paid any heed. To stop on the open was dangerous, and the Germans were out already. They could be seen, dark figures breaking through the enemy's barbed wire entanglements. Presently they would be engaged with the British in a hand-to-hand encounter for the possession of the crater.

Fitzgerald reached the rim of the hole and stood there for a moment looking down. Heavy coils of thick smoke wound snake-like along the bottom, where the black earth was illumined by ghastly phosphorescent lights that trailed up the sides in thin sluggish streaks. A few soldiers were already going down into the place and halting from time to time, taking stock of the scene before them. All were spluttering and coughing, and a few had pulled their gas helmets down over their heads and faces. "This is no blurry bean-fast, I can tell yer," Spudhole muttered as he tried to clamber back, crawling with difficulty almost knee-deep in the rubble. As he moved the clay shot away from beneath him, and he found himself in the unenviable plight of being able to advance a foot, only to find himself slipping back a yard.

The enemy shelled with unceasing persistency, and men were getting struck on the rim of the crater. Anywhere was better than where they were standing—they flopped into the crater, making futile efforts to save themselves, from rolling to the bottom, by clawing at the clay of the sides. Once down, however, they found to their relief that breathing was easier than they had anticipated.

"What now?" somebody enquired, looking vaguely round.

"What indeed? What's to be done?"

"We'll get killed like blurry rats down 'ere.... The Alleymongs are coming over in droves...."

"It's better to fight them on the top than to let them stone us to death down here."

Sergeant Snogger, in a sheepskin coat, which was freshly ripped across the shoulder by a bullet or shell splinter, rolled down the side of the crater and landed at the bottom. In a moment he was on his feet.

"Up to the top, boys!" he cried. "Don't stand here arguing like fishwives. Up to the top or you'll be damned unlucky."

Immediately the men were crawling up like ants, but with extreme difficulty. Their heavy boots, their equipments and rifles impeded their movements, each man was a khaki-clad Sisyphus, battling against an incline such as the patient Sisyphus never experienced. The men, grunting and swearing, seemed to be making no headway, the scaling of the craterside, about sixty feet in depth, was a Herculean task for men strong of wind and limb, for them it was a task of despair.

"We'll never get there," Bubb grunted. Then his eyes sought the top. "Gor' blimey!" he muttered, "there they come."

A man, dressed in German uniform, stood on the rim of the crater, a rifle in his hand, and looked down. As the soldiers watched, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it at the crush in the bottom of the crater.

The movement was his last. Bowdy Benners arrived at that moment, dressed in full marching order, his rifle in his hand and the bayonet fixed. The "point" was delivered at the shoulder, and Benners' long arms put all the zest of a strong body into the movement. The German came clean over the rim of the crater and rolled down to the bottom, clawing at the air with frenzied fingers.

Bowdy lay down at the top, and his rifle became active. Round after round sped across the open towards the foe, who were now coming up in bulk and getting very close to the crater.

"Keep it up, Bowdy!" cried Snogger. "Are they near?"

"They're not far away," said Bowdy without looking round. "Devil blow me blind, they'll be here in a second if you don't come up and give me a hand.... Ha! They've stopped now, a shell has caught a couple."

"All right, Bowdy, we're here," the sergeant shouted reaching the summit.

The main body of Germans, advancing in open order, was still some fifty yards away. As far as could be ascertained at the moment, the delay (they should have been across the open three minutes ago) was due to a heavy curtain fire which had greeted them just as they came out of their trenches. The fire caught them at the barbed wire entanglements, concussion shells tore up the wires and swept them around the bodies of the attackers, and the impartial shrapnel rained viciously down on the huddled heaps of wounded.

The quick were advancing, a dispirited party of men, in open order, glad to get away from their own trenches, which were suffering cruel chastisement. Some were willing to fight even yet; five or six had flung themselves down on the ground and trained their rifles on the British positions, opening a wild erratic fire of slight intensity. Cold hands never hold a rifle steady on a Christmas morning.

The men in the crater lay down behind the parapet which the exploding mine had formed and opened fire with deadly effect.

"That'll knock the blurry stuffin' out o' them," Spudhole remarked. "There they come now, their 'ands up in the air." It was even as he remarked. The advanced line of Germans put their timorous hands over their heads and stepped diffidently towards the mine. "Kamerad! Kamerad!" they whined, their arms shaking as if stricken with palsy. The snipers threw their rifles away and joined in with their mates. All were sick of the job.

"Take them prisoners," said Sergeant Snogger. "There's nothing else to be done."

An hour later when the wounded had been carried back to the trench and the prisoners were marched off to the village at the rear, the victors were left to themselves, in undisputed possession of their hard-won crater.

The Christmas morning scene was one never to be forgotten: the rain-swept crater, the crumbling clay, the fumes of gunpowder, the dead bodies, the monotonous hum of ragtime choruses, the shells bursting across the top, the dirty rifles and the dirtier men who endeavoured to clean them. Bowdy Benners was there with a full pack and a bulging haversack. Fitzgerald and Spudhole were deep in a discussion on some nonsensical subject; but the discussion served its object, it brought the men's minds away from the stark reality of their surroundings. Snogger sitting on his haunches, was giving details of the fight to his platoon commander, Captain Thorley.

Bubb drew up towards Bowdy and asked him for a drink from his water-bottle. Benners handed it to him with a solemn look. Spudhole drank.

"Good?" asked Bowdy.

"Wonderful stuff," said Spudhole.

"Hand it round," said Bowdy.

All drank from the water bottle in turn, and each man winked knowingly when he drank. None of the men had expected any rum that morning, the rations of the night before had been so short; the limbers met with a mishap when coming up to the Vallé Dump. Of course, all were aware that Bowdy had come into possession of the rum by illegitimate means. However, no enquiries were made.

"Now what about a smoke before dinner?" Bubb remarked, fixing a knowing glance on Bowdy. "'As anybody got a fag to spare? Many a pore bloke 'as 'gone West' since I 'ad my last fag."

Fitzgerald fumbled about in his haversack and found a box, a little tin box, lying snug and dry amidst a crush of papers and broken biscuits. Some fifty cigarettes were enclosed within. He handed them round.

They lit them up. The drink and the smoke exercised a cheering effect upon the men. A look of pleasure stole over every face and the men burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter when Spudhole, standing on a platform of clay, placed his arms akimbo and wished all a merry Christmas. "If we 'ave to spend the day 'ere, we must spend it 'ere, we must stick it 'ere, and there's no more to be said," he laughed. "We'll get relieved to-night," he added; "that's if we're lucky."

"Suppose we build a dug-out and light a fire," said Snogger. "There's 'arf-a-dozen poles standin' over the top; we've got waterproof sheets, trenchin' tools and good chalk to work in."

Drawing their tools from their equipment, the men set to labour with zeal, hollowed out a shelter in the chalk, roofed it over and lit a fire. The latter was the most difficult feat, and several entrenching tool handles had to be cut into thin spales and placed over the flames before the fire burned properly.

"Devil blow me blind if that's not very clever," said Bowdy Benners when the flames were dancing merrily against the wall of the dugout. "It almost puts me in mind of Christmas away in Blighty. Now we'll see what we've in hand for a meal for our Christmas dinner. I'll look in my pack."

He opened his pack and took out the treasures, which he piled against the wall of the dug-out. The pack contained three large loaves, cut into thick chunks, eight tins of sardines, a tin of condensed café-au-lait, two bottles of champagne and several slabs of Menier's chocolate. The bulging haversack was another treasure wallet; it contained apples and pastry in abundance, also a tin of lard, which would presently be used for frying bully beef.

During all the morning the artillery fire had not wholly slackened, but now a quiet moment held the line. Dinner was prepared. First the men made tea, using the water from their water-bottles and boiling it in mess-tins over the fire. Then they cooked their bully beef on the mess-tin lids and cut the bread into nice thin slices. It was Fitzgerald who proposed that all slices should be thin, and none gainsaid his whim. The first course consisted of sardines and bread; the second course of bread and fried bully. Tea was served with every course. Followed pastry for dessert, and fruit was served out in dainty portions. They brought the meal to an end by drinking French wine and English rum, and lighting up their cigarettes.

During the meal the platoon commander was deep in talk with Sergeant Snogger and when the Christmas dinner was over he came forward and spoke to the party.

"My boys," he said, "this, I suppose, is the most interesting Christmas you've ever spent."

Bubb: "Too interestin' for me, sir."

Platoon Commander: "Yes, I suppose it is. But I hope that neither you nor any of us will spend Christmas under such conditions again. Such things must be at times, I suppose, and seeing that it came to our turn, I must admit that we did as well as any platoon in the British Army. You stuck to your posts like bricks and reaped honours from a fight where the odds were very much against us. Rifleman Benners at a critical moment showed great resource in putting one of the enemy out of action. For this we must thank him."

Platoon: "Hear, hear. Good old Bowdy!" etc.

Platoon Commander: "I haven't much further to say except that I'm going to recommend Rifleman Benners for the D.C.M. I am not going to make any inquiries as to where he spent last night and the early hours of this morning. As all you men assert that he was in the trenches I'll take your word for it! I'm not going to inquire where the champagne, bread and other things came from, but if I may, I'll say that I've never in all my life enjoyed a meal half as well as I enjoyed my Christmas dinner in the Loos Salient."

That night the Irish were relieved.

A month later the D.C.M. was given to Bowdy Benners.

CHAPTER VIII BACK TO HIS OWN

The dark night clung close to the wet levels of No Man's Land, and a breeze whimpered across the grasses, crooning wearily. The whole world seemed tired; the star-shells rose lazily over the German trenches, burned drowsily for a space, and fell sluggishly to earth. The light failing, the circle of horizon grew less, and objects quite close at hand became hidden from view. The hour was about ten, and Bowdy Benners felt tired and sleepy. He was sick of it all—the night raids, the attacks, and bombing encounters. His mind turned to home—quiet London—the peaceful houses, the easy nights of untroubled sleep, afternoon teas, and the hundred-and-one comforts of civil life which were so far removed from him at the moment.

"It must be ten now," he muttered. "I suppose I'll get relieved presently."

The door of a near dug-out opened, and the ray of a candle shone out into the trench. One of his mates came out, his rifle in his hand, his waterproof ground-sheet over his shoulders.

"Is that you, Bubb?" he asked. "Taking a turn as sentry?"

"All right," Bubb answered. "Thought I wasn't coming out, eh? Are you fed up?" he asked.

"A bit sick of it," said Bowdy. "I'm tired of looking across the parapet day and night. How do you like it?"

"Rotten," said Spudhole. "The weather is so damned rotten! Everything's rotten."

He got upon the firestep, placed his rifle against the wall, and tied his waterproof across his shoulders.

"Old Flanagan is back," said Bubb, as Bowdy made his way towards the dug-out. "'E 'as come wiv a fresh draft o' men."

"Who? Flanagan? Where is he?" Bowdy asked in one mouthful.

"He's in the dug-out," said Bubb.

Bowdy rushed in, almost trampling on the face of a man who was asleep near the door. Yes, Flanagan was there—handsome Flanagan, the gallant youngster with a college education.

He was an Irish boy and belonged to the section at St. Alban's in the old days. He was a fine-looking youth of medium height, with heavy dark hair, an intelligent forehead, impassioned nostrils and an air of aloofness which became him well. He had a frank and open expression, pensive grey eyes and high cheekbones. He came from the West of Ireland and had studied for the priesthood. But feeling that this was not his vocation he entered the Civil Service. His people belonged to an old Irish family full of pride and poverty. Flanagan, though well educated, was a bit of a rake and loved the bottle. When excited he spoke with a delicious brogue and paid little heed to his grammar, but he was an omnivorous reader and carried a number of books about with him in his haversack. Montaigne was a great favourite of his. He had gone home badly wounded seven months earlier and his mates never expected to see him out in France again.

He was now sitting in a corner of the dug-out, his handsome face radiant with joy and eagerness, betraying a certain boyish innocence which in no way detracted from the dignity of his features.

"You've come back again, Flan?" Bowdy said, and gripped him by the hand.

"Yes, I'm back again," he answered.

"Glad to be with us?" Bowdy queried. "Glad to leave London and come out here?"

"Of course I am," he answered, handing Benners a cigarette.

The confession staggered Benners, but in a way he was not surprised. Flanagan was a youngster who took eagerly to the life of war, its romance and roving. He wanted to attempt everything; nothing was too big for him. With him it was no sooner see than try, and his store of enthusiasm was so unbounded that he generally succeeded in most projects. But to come back again when his wound must surely have been a permanent Blighty one!

"Why have you come back?" Bowdy asked. "Tell me all about it while I rouse the brazier and make a mess-tin of tea."

"A mess-tin of tea!" he exclaimed, as Bowdy bent over the brazier. "God, it's good to hear that, old man! The cups are so small at home. Little things. But a mess-tin full! Heavens, things are done on such a big scale in the trenches! One gets long hours of fighting, of working, of watching. Everything is taken in big mouthfuls here; there's nothing petty in the job. But at home—the soft beds—but I could not sleep; the little tea-cups—but I had no appetite; the politeness, the swank, the fine dresses—but the whole thing made me ill. We've been looking on the gods here, and I went back to live with ordinary mortals—I couldn't stick it!"

"You're a big fool, Flan," said Benners, as he fanned the brazier with a week-old copy of an English paper. "I would like to get home. I'd be in no hurry...."

"You think so," said Flanagan, "but you'd soon change your mind. I spent two months in hospital, then I was sent to a convalescent camp. But my shoulder wouldn't mend; you know I got it in the shoulder. I couldn't raise my arm; something was dislocated. But that didn't matter.... The convalescent camp was a damned nice place, near Brighton and beside the sea. There was an old sergeant-major, a rheumaticky old fellow who talked through his nose. But a good fellow all the same. We called him Nick Nock. He had no end of trouble with us, the Old Sweats, and he was always on the look-out for me. Got my name into his head somehow, and maybe I was not easy-going enough for a rheumaticky old man. He must have been about sixty-five.

"We slept in huts. Nick Nock would come to the door of our hut in the early morning. 'Are yer all in bed yet?' he would shout. (Flanagan gave an imitation of a man speaking through his nose). 'Are yer never goin' to get up? Where's Flanagan?'

"'Close the door, Nick Nock,' someone would say. 'It's too blurry cold. Close the door, will yer?"

"'I'll not close the door,' the old man would answer. 'I'll get every man of you out o' bed 'fore I leave 'ere. They're up in all the huts bar this'n.'

"'Oh! Close the door,' one would say, rising up in bed and lighting a cigarette.

"'I'll not close the door,' the sergeant would answer. 'Wot I want to know is this: where's Flanagan?'

"'Dead,' one would say. 'Gassed in the knees.'

"''E's 'angin' on the wires,' from another.

"''Is bed wasn't slept on last night,' from Nick Nock. 'When I see 'im, 'e'll be for it. And you'll all be for it if ye're not out o' kip when I come back 'ere in ten minutes from now. Mind that.'

"'Close the door, Nick Nock,' the hut would shout, as the sergeant turned to go out.

"'I'll not shut the door.'

"'Leavin' it like that and it so cold,' all would expostulate. 'Please shut the door.'

"'I'll not shut the door,' from Nick Nock. 'One would fink that the whole damn caboosh is out on a Sunday School treat.'

"Then the old man would go out, closing the door behind him. Time for me to appear then. I would come out from under the table where I had hidden. I had been out all night and just got into the hut before Nick Nock."

"Was Nick Nock ever out here?" asked Bowdy.

"Sixty-five and rheumaticky, what could he do?" said Flanagan. "But he felt it. Once he said to us, 'You know, boys, I feel out o' place 'ere. You fellows 'ave been out an' fightin', and 'ere when you come 'ome, I'm bossin' ye. It's not fair.'

"Ah! but another time he gave us a lecture, and this was how he began:—

"'Boys, there 'as been great changes in the harmy of late years. When I joined, it twasn't as good as it is now, but after I came things improved, and at the present day a man cannot do better than roll up an' become a soldier.'"

"Damn Nick Nock," said Bowdy Benners. "Tell me something about yourself. What did you do after you left the convalescent camp?"

"Well, I went off on leave from the convalescent camp, lost my pass, and forgot when I had to return. I came back seven days late. Things took a turn; Nick Nock reported me and I was taken before a medical board. The board had to determine whether I was in a fit state to survive seven days in jankers or not. Three or four old and wise men pummelled me, sounded me, and did a lot of other things. Finally they discharged me from the army. God! I could jump over the moon with joy. I bought a suit of civvies, brown tweeds, patent leather boots, and a nice white collar, a dainty little tie, a velours hat. I was quite a swell. Some of my friends live in London and I stopped with them. They were going to help me, get me a bomb-proof job with good pay and lazy hours. I had been a bit of a rake before the war, but they did not mind that. A boy must have his fling. I had proved myself a man when the country called. You know the things they would say, stock phrases that are worthy of an auctioneer. I liked it for a little, Bowdy; but then, the small teacups, the small talk, the little tit-bits of scandal...."

Flanagan got to his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets, and looked at Bowdy.

"I used to lie awake at night—the beds were so damned soft and uncomfortable—and think of the nights spent out in the trenches, sitting in a snug dug-out with the rain pattering on the roof, or through it," Flanagan went on, fixing his gaze at the candle. "Again my thoughts would run on the long night marches up the road, with the moonlight on the cobbles, and the big poplars standing upright like pompous sergeant-majors, away up to the star-shells, the big guns and the trenches. I thought of these things night after night, and I began to feel afraid. I knew that it was coming, I knew that I would leave England and come out to France again. I felt stifled at home; everything was so small and little. God, the tea is beginning to bubble already!

"Do you remember, old man, that night when we lay in the orchard, waiting to go up to the trenches to attack?" he suddenly asked, thrusting his face almost into Bowdy's. "Do you mind the buses, crowded with soldiers carrying rifles at all angles, going by on the road, the star-shells flaring up in the sky, and the bayonets glittering? The buses—going, going like hell, and the stars above shining through the apple trees—the trees were in blossom then, if you mind.... Don't you remember it?" he asked.

"I shall never forget it," Bowdy answered.

"And the raids?" he questioned, in a slow voice. "Crawling out through the long grasses with the poppies flicking you in the face, your nerves tense, not knowing what the next moment would bring. I thought of these things day after day, and in the end I succumbed to the old lure.

"'Twas a difficult job getting back again. There was I, dismissed from the army, and no more good as a fighter; my shoulder stiff and sore; my discharge papers showing that I was medically unfit, and in fact a thorough wash-out. But something had to be done. 'Twas then that I met old Nick Nock again. He was discharged, too—time-expired. I met him, I grieve to state, in a pub. I stood him a drink and told him my predicament. He thought for a moment, then he said: 'Why not come back from the back o' beyond, a sailor, go up to the recruiting station an' call yerself Bill Jackson an' get taken on again. Don't mention a word about yer shoulder, an' maybe the M.O. won't notice it. Gawd! I'd go wiv yer meself, Flanagan, if it wasn't fer those damned rheumatics.'

"I tried the dodge, got taken on as Bill Jackson, who was at one time A.B. before the mast, and now Flanagan is dead to the British Army henceforward, evermore."

"The tea is about ready, Bill Jackson," Bowdy said, as his mate sat down on the floor between the legs of a man who was sound asleep and breathing heavily. "If you care to wait a little, I'll fry a rasher of bacon. Rations are pretty plump to-night."

"And is there any rum going?" Flanagan asked, springing to his feet again. He was too excited to remain still. "How strange that I had forgotten to ask about the rum rations until now," he muttered. "I suppose there'll be a tot after a little?"

"It's within the bounds of possibility," Bowdy remarked, as he put two rashers of bacon in the mess-tin lid and placed the lid on the brazier. "But we'll see to that later. Necessities before luxuries out here, Bill Jackson," he added.

The bacon was ready and they sat down, Flanagan and Bowdy, and commenced to eat. Meals have no season in the trenches, but they are always welcome.

"God, it's good to be back here!" said Flanagan. "I've never been so happy in all my life! I hope the war won't end until this happiness is worn out."

He was sincere in his expressions, and his mood almost became Bowdy's before the meal was at an end. They lay back when they had eaten and lit cigarettes. The smoke wreathed upwards to the roof, where the mice was scurrying amidst the rafters under the sandbags. The soldiers were still asleep on the floor, their bodies curled up in queer attitudes.

"They sleep sound," said Flanagan. "Who is that snoring? Is it old Snogger?"

"Snogger it is," said Bowdy.

"I thought so," said Flanagan. "I knew his snore. I couldn't sleep like that at home—I'm very glad to be out here again. It's a great life, and I like it more than ever before. I suppose I'll get tired of it again, after a while. The novelty will wear out in due time, I've no doubt. By the way, have you Fitzgerald with you yet?" he asked.

"He's here," Bowdy made answer. "He's in love with a French girl named Fifi. He's very fond of her."

"He's in love, is he?" said Flanagan. "I mind him at St. Albans; he was in love so often. But none would take him seriously," he said. "Why, I don't know."

Bubb, the sentry, came to the door.

"'Oo's next on?" he yelled. "Sleepin' there like 'ogs, you is. Get up out't!"

"Leave him alone," said Flanagan, alluding to the soldier whom Bubb was endeavouring to rouse up. "I'll do his turn."

"Well, blimey, that's a strange caper," said Bubb, as Flanagan disappeared through the door. "One would fink 'e was in love wiv this 'ere caboosh. I know o' one squadder that ain't, that's this 'ere kid. Well, any'ow, I'm goin' to 'ave a kip."

Bubb and Bowdy lay down together and dropped off to sleep, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof, while outside on the firestep Flanagan was standing on guard, humming an old Irish song, his heart filled with the joy of a wanderer who has returned to his kind.

CHAPTER IX TRENCH FEVER

The Irish were back in the trenches again. It was night; the ground was covered with snow, and Spudhole who did not feel well was glad of an hour's rest in a dug-out.

The dug-out belonged at one time to the Germans. It was a spacious apartment stretching out into unfathomable corners. The dry floor was level as a board and all round the walls snug little crannies were scraped out in the clay. Here were stored all manner of odds and ends, bully beef tins, loaves, biscuits, coils of barbed wire, hand grenades, bandoliers, water jars, tins of jam, candles and firewood.

A brazier burned on the floor, the smoke curled upwards and was sucked out through a hole in the roof as through a chimney. A dozen men sat around the fire, their sheepskin jackets steaming and the brass buckles of their equipment shining like gold. The blaze, burning high, lit up the steady eyes and ruddied the strong features of the men. Spudhole, half asleep, leant forward over his knees, his arms folded, his shoulders humped up and his helmet well down over his face. Bowdy Benners was writing a letter, his notepaper spread out on Bubb's back, his knees crossed. An old, wrinkled man of forty-eight, named Bill Hurd, was telling how his own son had joined the Army at the outbreak of war. Hurd was an Irishman and had worked as a carpenter on a big estate in Devon, and his son John had a job in his father's workshop.

"'Twas two days after war was declared," Bill was saying, "and I was down in the kitchen waitin' till it was time to go out till my job. I was always an early riser. Upstairs I heard John singin' like a thrush. 'What's wrong with him?' I says till myself, for, though he was a good, willin' cub, he was not an early riser. When he came down I says till him, 'What's up wid ye this mornin'?' I says. 'I'm goin' till jine up,' he says. It most took my breath away. 'But ye're not only eighteen come the end of next week,' I says till him. 'But I can be nineteen at a pinch,' he answers, and what was to be said to that? I ups and shakes him by the hand. 'Ye're a man, that's what ye are,' I says till him. 'And where are ye goin' to jine up?' I asks him. 'In the town,' he says, meanin' the town nearest where there was a recruitin' station. 'Then I'll go 'long wid ye an' see that ye're right fitted up,' I says to him. 'I must go out an' do an hour's work,' he then says. 'When I've finished that I'll be ready to go.' 'Right, me boy,' I says, for I knew that he wanted to go out and tell the other men what he was going to do.

"So we goes to the recruitin' station and the corp'ral there runs a tape over John. 'Ye'll do,' he says. 'Ye'll make a fine sodger.' So we went out, me an' him, and I goes wid him to the nearest tobacco shop. 'Now think of what ye're goin' to do,' I says till him. 'It's not an easy job, the job of a sodger. Now think,' I said, 'think, me boy.' He looked at me straight in the face and said, as if he was offended: 'Ye don't think I've done wrong, do ye?' Begorra, there and then, I just—and there were a lot iv people lookin' at us—I just caught him be the hand and squeezed it. 'Ye're a man,' I says, 'an' I'll get ye a pipe an' tobacco.'

"And so I did, and would ye misdoubt me when I say that he was as handy puttin' a match to a pipe as I was meself. But it's not easy to understand young cubs."

"When did you join up?" asked Snogger, who came into the dug-out at that moment.

"Long after that," said Billy. "There was a young fellow on the estate, the son of me mistress. A fine, hearty-lookin' fellow, a rale good lump iv a cub with laughey eyes and so handsome. He was a great friend iv mine. Well, he was an officer in the regulars, and he got hit in the eyes out here be a splinter iv a shell and he was knocked stone blind. He comes home, goes into hospital, and was there for long enough, but nothin' could be done. All hope was lost; he would be blind for life. And his mother, she took it as calm as anything. 'Billy,' she used to say to me, 'somebody must suffer and it's all for the country when all's said and done.' She was a brave woman; didn't wear her heart on her sleeve. I never saw her eyes wet, not until one day. 'Twas when her boy sent a wee fretwork letter-rack home from hospital as a present to his mother. He had made it himself, blind as he was, and it was very purty. I was doin' a bit of woodwork in the hall when it came in a parcel. The mother opened the parcel and saw what was inside.... And she began to cry as if she would never stop. After that, when anybody spoke of her boy, she would burst out weepin'.

"Well, I liked the boy," said Billy. "So I thought 'twas up to me to have revinge for him on the Germans. So I had a clean shave and went to the recruitin' office and signed on as a man of thirty-nine."

"Ye should have had more sense," said Bubb, getting to his feet, and disappearing into a corner. No doubt the boy, who was not feeling well, wanted to snatch an hour's sleep.

Snogger looked at the men.

"Six of you for rashun fatigue," he said. "Two to relieve the men on guard. Whose turn is it?"

"I'm one," said Bowdy.

"Me as well," said Billy Hurd.

"Pull yourselves together, then, and git out," said Snogger. "It's two minutes past time."

Bowdy and Billy got to their feet, buckled their equipment and went out to their posts. An hour later they came back. Bowdy shook the snow from his sheepskin jacket and sat down on the ground beside the brazier.

"It's a very cold night outside," he said. "Freeze the horns off a brass monkey, it would. Where's Spudhole?" he asked.

"Wot's wrong now? Wot d'yer want?" asked a feeble voice, as Spudhole peeped out from a dark corner by the wall. He rose to his feet and buttoned his sheepskin jacket which had become loose.

"How are you feeling now, Spudhole?" asked Benners.

"Oh, I'm all right; in the pink," said Spud. "'Ave yer a drop of water to spare?"

Bowdy handed a water-bottle to Spud; the youngster raised it to his lips and drank greedily.

"Cold water's not a drink for a night like this," said Bowdy. "What you want is something hot. If I make a mess-tin of tea, will you have some?"

"Thank you," said Bubb, handing the bottle back.

"I'm goin' to 'ave another kip now," he added. "Rouse me up when it's my turn for sentry-go."

He lay back, closed his eyes and felt very cold. At intervals he shivered, shaking from head to foot. Innumerable currents of icy air seemed to have taken up their abode in the dug-out, living, crafty currents as cruel as enemies, which stole slyly down his back penetrating between flesh and underclothing. They blew on the back of his neck; when he turned round he encountered them on his face, they stole out from all corners incessantly chilling him with their treacherous, frozen breath. He fell asleep, woke up, and it seemed to him that a swarm of ants had got into his throat and that other ants, thousands of them, were crawling over his arms and legs.

He got up, shook himself. His legs felt very weak, his head was spinning. He tottered over to the fire. Bowdy, who was pouring a handful of tea into the boiling water, looked up.

"Good heavens, Spudhole, you are looking bad," he said. "Feeling cold?"

"Cold's not the word," Bubb replied. "I wouldn't be worse off 'andcuffed to a ghost. Wot's the time?" he asked.

"Ten to eleven," said Bowdy, looking at his wrist watch.

"Just 'bout my time for sentry-go," said Bubb in a weak voice. "I s'pose I'm gettin' trench fever or somefin'," he added.

Bowdy placed a spoonful of condensed milk in the tea, stirred it and added sugar.

"This will warm you up," he said, filling the mess-tin lid with tea and handing it to Bubb. "Then you can lie down agin near the fire and I'll do your turn as sentry."

Spudhole had the lid half raised to his lips. His hand shook, the tea splashed out in little drops which fell on the brazier.

"Bowdy!" he said, in a slow voice.

"What is it?"

"I've never failed at my work yet," said Spudhole. "I'm not 'ere in the trenches to shift my jobs on to other blokes."

"But you're feeling queer," said Bowdy. "If I felt like that I would go down and see the M.O. and get shoved into hospital."

"Would you!" said Spudhole, placing the mess-tin lid on the floor. "I know better. Wot did I 'ear yer say once? Ye'd never leave your trenches when the regiment was there unless you were carried out on a stretcher."

"That was only swank," said Bowdy. "You drink your tea, Spudhole, and lie down. I'll put a couple of sandbags round you and if you're not better in the morning, just run down and see the M.O."

"Well, I'm damned if I goes away from the line," said Bubb. "Not until the battalion is wiv me. That's settled."

He bent down, raised the mess-tin and drank the tea. Snogger came to the door.

"Next on sentry-go?" he called.

"I'm there," said Bowdy.

"It's my turn," said Bubb.

"No chewin' the fat, or some of ye'll be damned unlucky," said Snogger. "'Ooever's on's on, that's all; so get some elbow grease on and 'urry out. Them that's on's a minute and 'arf over their time already."

Spudhole went out, crawled up on the firestep and relieved the sentry. Leaning both arms on the parapet, he looked over No Man's Land towards the German trenches. The levels in front, a shell-scarred spread of ground set off in its ghastly array of barbed wire entanglements, was covered with snow. Here Nature had only one mood, a mood of sulky menace which overawed and subdued the tempers of the onlookers. The sky was coldly clear and a million stars showed in its broad expanse. But Bubb's circle of horizon was very small, objects quite near at hand stood out weirdly silhouetted with a blurred, though definite outline. The trenches were wrapped in ghostly solitude, the brazier aflare in the dug-out which Bubb had just left added no relieving tint to the blind helplessness of the night.

The sick boy stood back from the parapet and clapped his hands together in an endeavour to warm himself.

"Gawd, it's cold 'ere," he muttered. "I wish I was in the dug-out 'avin' a kip. 'Twould be so much better than standin' out 'ere. But I wouldn't 'ave it, naw, not at any price. I wouldn't shove my job on to any bloke. Bowdy would do sentry-go for me, good old Bowdy, and so would old Flan if 'e warn't down at the dump, but why should they? I wouldn't mind lettin' them do it if it was out o' the trenches."

"How are you getting on, Spud?" asked a voice from the trench. "Feeling the cold?"

The boy looked down at Captain Thorley. The captain and he were great friends.

"Cold," said Spud, through chattering teeth. "It's not warm 'ere, is it, sir? I feel as cold as if I was 'andcuffed to a ghost."

"I hear that you're not feeling well," said the captain.

"I'm orlright, sir. Was a bit dicky a minute back, but the cold air 'asn't 'arf bucked me up."

"Well, you know that Bowdy will do your job for you if you're feeling queer," said Thorley.

"I know that, sir, but I'm orlright," said Bubb. "Besides, I wouldn't rob a man of 'is sleep."

Bubb finished his hour, but when his next turn as sentry came round he was unable to perform his duty. He looked helplessly at his mate.

"Bowdy," he said, in a low, apologetic voice. "I've no guts for anuvver hour's sentry-go. I'm washed out. I will go down to the M.O. not to-morrow mornin' but now. If I stay 'ere any longer, I'll 'ave to be carried out o't. But didn't I stick it to the last, Bowdy?"

"Of course, you did. I'm damned if I'd stick it so long."

"Clear out of it at once, Spudhole," said Billy Hurd. "Ye're like a ghost, somethin' like what a cat would take in on a wet day."

"Ye think I'm sick enough to leave 'ere then?" asked Bubb. "I don't want any o' the fellers to say, arter I go, that I was swingin' the lead."

"If ye stop 'ere any longer, they'll say that ye're stayin' here, hopin' that ye'll be so bad when ye leave that ye'll never be sent back again."

"Then I'm off out't," said Bubb, decision in his voice. "I'll try and be back as soon as I can."

He went outside and made his way to the dressing station. Dawn found him snug in a motor ambulance on his way to hospital.

CHAPTER X LOST TO THE WIDE

It was past eight o'clock of a January evening and the soldiers in "Home Sweet Home" dug-out sat down late to tea. The dug-out was situated at the bottom of a chalk-pit near Vimy Ridge and was occupied by officers' servants, company runners, signallers and others who generally kept in close touch with battalion headquarters. The chalk pit was more or less immune from shell fire, for, being narrow and deep, it was difficult for a shell to reach the bottom, round which a ring of spacious dug-outs circled. Over the top and five hundred yards eastwards ran the communication trench which wound its way discreetly up to the British front line.

Lights gleamed in the dug-outs and sounds of laughter and singing could be heard from "Home Sweet Home." It was a capacious shelter, originally fashioned by the French, and capable of holding thirty men. At the present moment it contained some fifteen British soldiers engaged in the pleasant task of eating a substantial meal. Rations as well as the post had just come up from the railhead, rum was issued, and the parcels from home had been bulky. The meal was proceeding merrily. Some of the men were laughing and chatting, sitting on the ground, their knees crossed and mess-tins of steaming tea in their hands. Two or three were stripped and their wet clothes were hung over the fire in the brazier. All were so cool and happy that it was difficult to believe that the German shells were just dropping outside the door.... Suddenly the waterproof sheet that covered the door was raised and a newcomer entered. He stood for a moment looking round, then he approached an up-ended ammunition box which stood in the centre of the dug-out and sat down on it.

"Oh, it's old Fitzgerald," exclaimed Flanagan, now of the signalling section, who was endeavouring, with the aid of a bayonet, to draw the cork from a rum jar. "How are things going on up at Vimy?" he asked.

"Not so bad," Fitzgerald answered. "There's plenty of shells flying across, and now and again we get a Minnie, saucy devil. We do get more than is good for our health. Vimy is not the most pleasant place on our front. I've helped to take a prisoner down."

"A prisoner?" Flanagan exclaimed, handing Fitzgerald a drop of rum in a mess-tin. "A German?"

"Yes, a youngster," Fitzgerald answered, lifting the rum reverently to his lips and rolling it round in his mouth. "He was caught on a listening patrol. Wounded and unconscious. I've got to wait here until he recovers, hear what he has to say, and report back to Captain Thorley with any information. You know we fear a mine going up at the sap, for all day and night we can hear tapping under the ground."

Fitzgerald held out his mess-tin again and received another tot of rum. Then he lit a cigarette.

"There's nothing like a drop of rum," he remarked. "It's 'health to the navel and marrow to the bones,' as the Scripture has it."

The hut laughed.

"What about a song, Fitz?" Flanagan asked.

"An old Irish one; a come-all-you."

"Nell Flaherty's Drake?" said Fitz in a tone of enquiry. The rum had put him in gay good humour.

"Spit it out," Flanagan yelled.

Fitzgerald commenced the song.

"That's the supreme curse, I think," Fitzgerald remarked, smiling lazily. "'May his kettle never boil'! Think of that—in Ireland, where the teapot's as greedy as the grave."

"Is that the end of the song?" a soldier asked from the corner.

"Only the first three verses," Fitzgerald replied. "There are forty verses in the song, but I forget the rest. My memory!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. "Good God! I forget everything, my memory is my curse.... Who has got a cigarette to spare?"

At that moment an orderly came to the door and shouted out: "D Company runner."

"I'm D Company runner," Fitzgerald remarked.

"Report to headquarters immediately," said the orderly. "Also Rifleman Flanagan to report. Two men must take the message."

"I'm there," said Fitzgerald, turning to Flanagan and asking: "Can I have another cigarette before we go?"

He got another cigarette, placed it in his cap and accompanied by Flanagan went out into the open and across to headquarters dug-out. The adjutant was inside sitting at a table, a cup of tea and a box of cigarettes in front of him. He knew Fitzgerald very well, having met him in civil life.

"I want you to go to the Ridge as quickly as you know how," said the adjutant, fixing his eyes on the runner. "The young German has regained consciousness and he tells us that the enemy are going to blow up three mines under our front to-morrow morning at six. The men must withdraw to the second trench until further orders. I've tried to 'phone up, but can get no answer to my calls. The wire must be broken. Hand the message over to Captain Thorley or any other officer whom you may encounter. You do the same, Flanagan, and both report back here when you've done this...."

He handed a sealed envelope to Fitzgerald and the runner went out into the night, the final words of the adjutant ringing in his ears.

"Very important, remember; very important."

Fitzgerald clambered up the side of the pit with difficulty, the chalk was frittering away and the man had very insecure purchase of his feet. Flanagan followed keeping a hundred yards to rear. At headquarters another runner was receiving a similar message. One would certainly deliver it safely.

When Fitzgerald crossed the rim of the chalk pit he could see the line of battle, the starshells flaring in the heavens and the lurid flames of bursting explosives lighting up the darkness. In front a spinney where the trees were riven and shattered took on strange shapes, the lifeless ruined branches stretched outwards, as it were, in reproach and despair; the fallen trees lay on the ground like rotting corpses.

War's earthquake had rent the whole country. Dark, sepulchral chasms yawned in the ground and the whole earth seemed to have been gutted to its core. A little red-brick cottage was smashed to smithereens; the machinery of a mill stood suspended over nothing, and shapeless walls, jagged and lacerated, quivered in air, ready to fall at the first gust of wind. Where the pits were dug in the earth, shapeless heaps of white chalk were flung up, and beside one of these heaps lay a battery of field guns jumbled in inextricable confusion. The rusty steel muzzles of the guns looked grotesque and distorted; the ruined dug-out in which the gunners once lived, breathed tragedy from every broken beam and torn sandbag. Dead men lay all over the place, shamelessly exposed in the most unlikely situations. On the field of war Death is denied its privileged privacy.

Fitzgerald entered the communication trench and hurried along, panting as he ran. Two shells swooped over his head, bursting with a vicious clatter on the field behind him. Others followed, pounding at the parapet like drunken gods. He could hear the splinters hitting the parados with a dull thud to the accompaniment of a thousand rifle bullets which tore at the suffering sandbags.

Fitzgerald passed through one trench crossing, then another. "I'll do it in five minutes now," he said, changing his rifle from one shoulder to the other. "I hope the mine doesn't go up before I get there. Five minutes," he muttered, "I'll be there in five minutes."

But Fitzgerald miscalculated. At the end of five minutes he found himself in a deserted trench, all alone, and then decided that it was time to turn back. Probably he had taken the wrong trench at the last crossing. He went back for a short distance and came to a junction. Several trenches crossed at this point, but the locality seemed new to him. He had not been there before.

"Well, I'm damned," he said, and then added, "I'm lost as well." He realised the danger of his plight and felt uncomfortable. Stories were often told over braziers in the dim trench traverse, and many of these stories spoke of men who went astray in the trenches and never returned. Sometimes the lost soldiers found themselves in the enemy's lines, and on other occasions they wandered up to their home parapets to fall a victim to the rifle of a nervous sentry. Fitzgerald had heard many of these stories and he recollected them now.

Much fighting had recently taken place on Vimy Ridge and the English and German trenches criss-crossed in several localities; in some places both parties occupied the same trenches.

Fitzgerald, alone and astray, had no definite idea of his position; he only knew that he was lost at the cross-trenches and did not know which trench led to safety. Perhaps he had passed beyond the British front. He peered over the top. The night was quiet, scarcely a rifle spoke, though many star shells were ablaze in the heavens and dropping petals of flame to the dark earth.... Right in front of Fitzgerald was a ghastly heap, jumbled and confused, a heap of dead men. And round this heap lay other dead things, rejected from the more composite and bulky distortion of war. The solitary figures lay—some face downwards, arms spread out, others curled up like sleeping dogs.

"Well, where am I?" asked Fitzgerald. "Whose starshell is that, ours or theirs?... Where's our line?"

He looked at a dead thing near him and shuddered. Then, shouldering his rifle, he made his way up the trench on his right.

"This is all right!" he muttered, passing a projecting beam of a fallen dug-out. "I passed this a minute ago ... but not this."

He detached himself awkwardly from the heap of limp bodies into which he had fallen and hurriedly retraced his steps to the junction where the dark trenches opened up to unknown mysteries.

Fitzgerald leant wearily against the wall and puzzled over many things.

"If I go over the top, what happens?" he asked himself. "Run into a German patrol, maybe, or into one of our own covering parties and they'll shoot me on sight. If I go along a trench, I'll probably get into the German lines. That won't do, either. I'm like a rat in a trap.... But I must get out of it. Yes, I must get out of it.... But how?"

The question caused a queer sensation to run down the innermost parts of his body and the sensation was one of fear. He mumbled many things to himself in a thick, quick undertone. Then, without realising the risks he ran, Fitzgerald crawled over the parapet and went out into the open, taking his rifle with him.

It was a man lying face downwards on the ground that attracted his attention first. He could have sworn that the man moved and brought a rifle to bear upon him. Fitzgerald stood upright and fired at the man twice, only to find that he was riddling a corpse with bullets. He flung himself flat to avoid the machine gun that opened fire and waited till it ceased its play. A galaxy of starshells lit up the heavens and a big shell of another pattern whirled across the open and burst with a dizzy clatter. In the distance could be heard the transports of war clattering along the roads, the clank of rails unleaded at some far-off railway siding, and gleaming luridly against the darkness could be seen the flames of a building on fire some dozen miles away. Near Fitzgerald lay a dead man, further off another, looking like an empty sack flung on the ground.

The maxim fire stammered into silence and the youth got to his feet, looked round and listened with strained ears. Somewhere near he could hear the sound of hammers and the creaking of shovels and he concluded that a working party was busy at its toil. It was impossible to determine to what side the party belonged. It might be German. The lines of trenches were very confused and salients projected out like ducks' bills in places, and at other points they receded some five hundred yards from the opposite front. No man was ever more solitary than poor, mud-stained Rifleman Fitzgerald at that moment.

And the night was full of mysterious whispers, sounds, creakings and rustlings. Spirits seemed to lurk on the vacant face of the earth and uncanny spirits hovered over the world. In the near distance all objects took on strange, undefined shapes, well in keeping with the grotesque fantasy of war.... Suddenly Fitzgerald fancied that he heard somewhere near him the sharp snap of a rifle bolt. He turned round and scurried back to the trench which he had just left. It seemed quite a distance to traverse and he slipped over the parapet and flopped down into the mud. But not a soul was to be seen, the trench was deserted. Neither was it the trench which he had left. Here the slush reached his hips. "Well, I'm damned!" he said, and leant against the parapet. "What am I going to do? I'm going to stick here, stick well in."

Shadow and silence brooded over the place, he had descended into the stagnation of the tomb. The clammy slush ran down his top boots and settled round his heels. He advanced one step, then another, touching both walls of the alley with his outstretched hands. He looked up and saw that the walls were very steep. It was impossible to climb up; the clay was too soft, it came away in the hands, and his feet were so weighty. Besides now he was sticking. Every time he moved the mud gripped him with greater vehemence. It seemed as if his feet were slipping down the throat of a voracious monster which was endeavouring to swallow him. The floor of the trench was a treacherous quicksand, as greedy as the grave. For a moment, Fitzgerald fought madly against the embrace of this soft, elusive terror, he gripped at the walls, the mud came away in his hands, he pulled one foot out, the other sank deeper. To move was ghastly, to remain still was deadly.

"I must move," he muttered. "If I don't I'll die; if I make a struggle, my fate will rest on the knees of the gods and they may save me."

The mud was reaching his waist. To pull out one leg he had to reach forward until his face touched the mucky floor, raise his hind foot clear, bring it round with a circular motion and place it down in the slush again. The same operation had to be performed at each remove. Once, he placed his hands in the muck and tried to crawl. But the effort was futile; his hands sunk in to the shoulder and the earth rose greedily, as if wanting to clutch him.

Fitzgerald came to a halt and looked hopelessly round. Nothing was to be seen but the darkness; the night was a cavern in which he had got lost. He gripped at the wall of the trench with furious fingers and part of the parapet came away in his hands, almost burying him.

"It's no good. I'm going to peg out here," he said, as he tried to shake himself clear. "If I only had a starshell over my head I'd look for a spot to die. I would select a better spot than this, anyway, if I had choice. But they've stopped sending up starshells now.... And I should have a parcel by the post to-night," he muttered. "And another drop of rum will be going round now I think.... But is that all I've to think about?..."

He shouted at the top of his voice, but there was no reply. He yelled again and then became silent. "What's the good of it?" he asked himself in a whisper. "I don't know where I am. Maybe I'm near the German trenches. If they find me here what will they do? Tread me in, probably.... And the mine, what about it? I've still got the message in my pocket. I wish this had happened after I had delivered the thing. But I'll go on a bit. I'll get to somewhere."

He moved forward. The first step was difficult, the next was easier, the subsoil had lost its birdlime tenacity and the slush was not as dense. A few steps further and Fitzgerald breathed. He was going up an incline, getting out of it his head was almost parallel with the rim of the trench. He burst into song:

The song suddenly stopped. A heavy shell swept over his head and burst very near. Another followed and another and Fitzgerald noticed that he had reached a junction where a number of trenches criss-crossed.

"Another damned labyrinth," he muttered. "Out you get, on to the top, Rifleman Fitzgerald," he ordered, apostrophising himself. And out he did get. It was now he discovered that his rifle had vanished, "Oh, I suppose it's in the mud," he muttered. "Lucky I'm not."

A trench showed some distance away. He made for it, slipped over the parapet and landed on something soft which moved.

"Gawd Orlmighty! Wot the —— are yer —— up ter," said a soldier, rising from the mud.

"They're shelling us," said Fitzgerald. "You'd better rouse up. What trench is this?"

"The support," said the man, "We're waitin' for a mine to go up or somefing."

The rest of the men were standing at their posts, alert and ready. The enemy had become nasty and were using an exceptionally heavy shell on the sector, but as yet it was bursting wide.

"A nine-point-two," somebody remarked to Fitzgerald, adding: "And Gawd! it doesn't 'arf send the dirt flyin' about. They'll attack, maybe."

"Any officers near here, Spudhole?" Fitzgerald asked, for he had recognised the voice of his comrade Bubb.

"'Orficers," said Spudhole. "Yes, Cap'n Thorley was about 'ere a minute ago; 'e.... Gor blimey, there's the shell again!"

Fitzgerald listened and heard "her" coming, crooning out the unknown. It was the big shell. Gathering volume it approached, an inevitable terror, a messenger of death. There was a hurried stampede to a near dug-out and Fitzgerald found himself in the crush and carried forward into the dark recess of a deep shelter. In the next few moments he was conscious of many things, of a sudden fall to the soft, muddy floor, of a choking sensation in the throat, a monstrously futile effort to drag himself clear of the man who fell on top of him, of nervous laughter and fierce imprecations. Then he sank into forgetfulness. The shell had blown the dug-out in on its occupants.

CHAPTER XI A SCRAP

It was not yet dawn, and the rain dropped sullenly into the wet trench where the soldiers stood to arms on the banquette, yawning and shivering with the cold. The bayonets showed clear cut and ominous when the blazing star-shell caught them. The men on watch shook themselves, rubbed their eyes with clay-encrusted fingers, and hummed monotonous tunes. All was very quiet. The dawn was oppressive, the dark, mysterious levels had an ominous threat in their incomprehensible silence. The support trench into which the soldiers had come was a great mysterious alley filled with spectres as impalpable as air.... The dawn came imperceptibly, men stood down and spoke of breakfast. But there was no fire; the loaves and biscuits were sodden with rain. Spudhole, who tried to open a tin of bully-beef with his clasp knife, cut his finger and swore dreadfully. His mates stared at him and nodded their heads, but did not speak....

Captain Thorley came along the trench speaking to the men on sentry-go.

"Cut your finger, Spudhole?" he asked when he came into the bay in which Bowdy and Bubb were stationed. The captain knew every man by nickname.

"Cut it," said Bubb. "Course I've cut it, sir. My fingers are so damn cold. Wot about this 'ere mine, sir?"

"It may go up now at any moment," said Captain Thorley. "You've all got to keep a good look-out. When it goes up every man cross the top and man the crater. Just as you did on Christmas morning. Bowdy will go with us this time. On the last occasion he was away, making love to some dear French girl."

Bowdy blushed.

"Pore ole Fitz 'as gone west," said Bubb. "'E's under the ground wiv a dozen tons o' muck on top o' 'im. There are five or six o' our boys buried wiv 'im. Round the corner in the next bay."

"I was looking at the dug-out that fell in," said Bowdy. "They're buried deep enough anyhow. It's no good digging them out."

"We've no time for that," said Thorley. "It's a long day's work for a big squad if it's ever attempted. Of course there's not a soul alive. Fitzgerald was coming with a message too. But it's all right, Flanagan brought the message in."

"Did you see a bay'net stickin' up froo the roof?" asked Bubb. "The dug-out fell down round it, and there it's stickin' up as if it wanted to stab somebody."

At that moment the earth trembled like a wind-shaken leaf. The men rushed to the parapet and looked over. Out in front a great lump rose on the level like a whale breaking up from the sea, and a livid flash lit the world. The soldiers sank into cover, mute, pale, hesitating. The roar of an earthquake filled their ears, and a million flying fragments filled the sky.... An almost incoherent order passed along the trench, and on the right men clambered over the sandbags into the open field.... They had to take possession of the mine crater. Snogger, Bowdy Benners and Bubb were across and in the next minute they were conscious of many things. Bubb slipped twice in getting over the top, and panted wearily as he rushed towards the spot where the earth was lumped up black and raw. Other men rushed along at his side, shouting and yelling. Rifles were discharged wildly at no particular objective, and a group of voluble guns chorused in dizzy harmony.

The men clambered down the steep sides of the newly-formed valley, a hundred feet deep or more, and up the crest again, where it looked over the enemy's trenches. The Germans were already advancing in extended order several hundred strong. The advance was done at the double through the lurid flashes of curtain fire which the English guns had opened. The Germans were falling, and the sight steadied the men somewhat, and they trained their rifles with precision and a certain amount of calmness on the oncomers.

The English guns were now speaking with furious vehemence and the shrapnel hissed at the grey forms which were still rising over the rim of the trench in front. Bubb and Benners lay down with their mates on the slope of the parapet and fired, a bit wildly perhaps, but it was impossible to miss. A machine-gun, already in position, swayed its snout from side to side, snapped viciously, and extracted its toll from the attackers.

They came forward, rushing wildly, their bayonets in air, their legs clumsily cutting off the distance between their trench and the crater. Many in the first line of attackers were falling and several were crawling back to their own lines on their bellies. Our bombers stood waiting, fingering their bombs nervously. The stench of explosives was suffocating. Several who were overcome with the gases dropped to the ground and rolled down the slope into the bottom of the pit. Bill Hurd stood up on the verge of the crater, where the wet, glistening machine-gun peeped forth.

"Steady, boys, steady!" he cried. "Take careful aim! Don't waste a round! Make every bullet tell! We'll beat them off! We'll beat them back, back, well back! Begorrah we'll show them."

He looked enormous, standing there, shouting vehemently and waving his arms.

"Beat them back!" he yelled, repeating the same remark over and over again. His rifle lay against the rim of the crater; the bayonet, rusty and grim, peered over the top as if in waiting.

"Take good aim," he shouted, running along the rim of the crater. "Be sure of your min.... Don't get flurried.... We'll bate thim back easily!... Keep cool and don't get flurried. If ye do you'll be damned unlucky. Don't get excited," he shouted. "If you do it won't be no good."

He held his peace then and Bubb looked round to see where he had sought cover. He was lying on his face and a very tiny red scar showed on his forehead.

Although the enemy advanced at the double, the time dragged slowly for the men on the parapet. They waited in agonised suspense for closer combat; somehow the firing seemed to have very little effect on the attackers. Hundreds fell and hundreds took the place of the fallen. The rim of the foemen's parapet was like the lip of a waterfall; the men came across in waves, got dashed to pieces, and waves followed only to meet with a similar fate. The successive lines of men were endless, eternal as a running brook.

The German first line drew nearer, the English could almost see the expressions of the men's faces; felt that the soul of the attackers was not in their work. It was impossible to miss them now. The attacking lines withered like waves on a beach. One man who came in front flung down his rifle, raced towards the crater with his hands in air and jumped in on top of Bill Hurd's bayonet, a ludicrous fixture.

"Pull it out!" he yelled in agony, speaking in good English. "Pull it out, for Gott's sake!"

But there was no time to spare at that moment; the English were fighting to save their own skins. The German rolled down to the bottom of the crater with the bayonet on which he had sat still stuck in his body.

A second and a third wave of attack followed; but the concentrated fire of the defenders cut great gaps in the attackers' lines, which became merged one with the other, when half way across. The men had no heart for further movement; they drew themselves to earth, and dug holes in the ground for safety. The English artillery fire prevented them from going back, the rifles would not allow them to come forward; they were caught between two fires.

Now and again an entrenching tool could be seen rising in air, and it was fired at. When a figure in grey moved, a questing bullet reminded it forcibly of the indiscretion. At times one would rise and walk around in an unconcerned and indifferent manner, probably he had gone insane, or perhaps the pain of a wound put death out of reckoning. The end was in all cases the same, the bullet found the man, and the ghastly fury of destruction held its sway.

On the right they reached the wires and the boys went out and met them: there the bayonet was at work.

They came up in big droves and some fumbled through. The defenders rushed out and gave fight.... An excited machine gunner played for a minute on the crush of friend and foe....

The Germans lost heart, retreated and were followed with bayonet, bludgeon and bomb. Tripping on the wires and stepping in flesh and blood, they went back, tramping on dead and wounded. The latter groaned piteously and shrieked for mercy.

The retreat became general, the front wave of attackers receded, those which followed stood still undecided. Here and there isolated parties made great fight, holding out until the last men fell....

Some of the Irish followed them across: a large party of prisoners were surrounded near the hostile trench. The German gunners had shortened their range and were now shelling the ground between the lines.

Fighting was even more severe on the right. There a confused and struggling mass reeled round the wires in a last wild effort, and the German artillery dealt death impartially to friend and foe alike. On all sides the wounded covered the field, lying in huddled heaps, in rows, singly and in pairs. In front of the mine a German moved on his stomach, then rose to his feet and flung a bomb at a party which went out to succour the wounded. A youngster, a boy newly out, named Ryan, rushed forward with his rifle, fired and missed. Still advancing, he slid a round into the breach of his weapon, shoved the rifle close to the German's forehead and pulled the trigger. The upper part of the man's head was blown off....

All day long the men stopped in the crater, always on the alert, and in front of them a long line of earth gradually took shape on the field, which showed that the enemy worked hard digging himself in. Towards dusk the dark line took on a whitish colour; the diggers had reached the chalk and were well under cover. When darkness fell the trench was raided and the occupants taken prisoners. Then graves were dug and the dead were buried.

CHAPTER XII THE DAY'S WORK

The winter was over, the birds were singing again on the barbed wire entanglements, the green grasses peeped out between the cobbles of the deserted village streets, and the flowers showed in the open spaces between the lines. The trenches were becoming dry; the parapets no longer crumbled down; it was possible to climb over the parados at night without flinging half the structure into the muddy alleys, where the soldiers kept eternal watch on the lines across the way. Sheepskin jackets were handed in; top boots were worn no more; a man could sleep at ease in a dug-out now, for the roofs, no longer weighted by the rain, had ceased falling in on the hapless sleepers. The tottering walls gathered strength; tottering spirits were braced up; men saw the sun and were pleased. The winter was over.

For one who has not experienced them, it is difficult to realise the hardships of the front line between the months of October and April. The trenches are deep ditches filled with mud and water that reach the waist. Now and again the heavy top-boots are useless protection against wet, the water rises over the tops of the boots and runs down the legs of the men. The boots stick in the mud, and often the men have to climb out of them; clamber from cells into a quagmire. In the days following the first trench winter when the earth got dry soldiers who had died in their top-boots were dug from the floors of the trenches. Weary with their efforts to get free from the deadly embrace of the muddy quagmire, they fell asleep and succumbed to exposure, died in their graves. And in spring they were dug out and buried anew.

The dug-out is as treacherous as the trench. The shaky construction, the lodge of fear, is always built in a hurry. Weak props hold a crazy roof in place; sandbags filled with earth serve the purpose of tiles. In dry weather a dug-out serves its purpose well, but in the rainy weather the sandbags becoming saturated finally weigh the rafters and props down to earth. Time and again the weary sleepers never wake, their shelter becomes their grave.

The trenches in the summer nights have a charm peculiarly their own when the starshells riot in the heavens and the air is full of the languorous scent of sleeping flowers. If the guns of war are silent, there is a genial atmosphere pervading the whole place, and men go about their work in a light-hearted manner.

One can smell tea brewing in the sheltered bay where a brazier glows cosily in the lee of the traverse. A game of cards is in progress in a dug-out, and a youth may be seen writing a letter by the light of a timid candle stuck on the wall. At that moment one does not feel far removed from home. But what a contrast in the cheerless winter. All the cosy comfort is a thing of the past. Men plough through muck and mire, dragging their feet and legs through water and mud, or sleep in the open, shivering with cold. The fingers are chilled to the bone, all feeling has gone away from the feet; for all one knows, the feet may have gone. No fires are lit, there is no wood, nothing that will burn.

The long night marches have lost all their romance. Clothes are seldom dry, they cling to the body like the rags of a drowned man, scourging and scaling the flesh. The cold rain stings the flesh, the snow freezes the fingers. Marching is difficult, the roads are thick with mud, and all roads lead to the firing line, the line of red agony, of desolation. The soldier is a mute, impotent figure, a blind pawn in the game of war. The billets are cold and cheerless. The broken roof, which allowed the winds of night to play round the sleepers in the hot summer weather, now lets in the cold and wet. Sleep is hardly a rest, it is a moment of forgetfulness similar to the solace which a sick man finds in a drug.

Spring was well on its way now; the boys in the trenches were happy again. Bubb and Flanagan were up to any sort of mischief or deed of daring. The persistent sniper who kept potting at their bay annoyed them however. Bubb, back from hospital and full of vitality, vowed that it was up to him to put the sniper out of action.

"I'm goin' up on this 'ere caboosh at the rear," said Bubb pointing to the slag-heap behind the British front line. "I'll maybe get a sight on the Boche."

"I'm with you in the game," said Flanagan.

Both men went out in the early dawn and took their places close to the crest of the mammoth slag-heap. Noon found them still there lying prone on the surface of the coal-mines' off-scour, their heads close to the rim of the heap, their eyes fixed on the enemy's trench which wound slyly as a snake through the levels some seven hundred yards away. A spit down from the two boys lay the English line. Out in front of it dozens of bundles in khaki lay limp and lifeless, waiting for the summer to cover them up with her flowers.

"There's a 'undred or more, out there," said Bubb. "Gawd, it's a funny bisness, killin' and killin'. One would think we enjoys it by the fuss the pypers in England makes o' it. Anyway, it's a blurry rotten way of fightin'," he continued as he changed his position by the fraction of an inch without removing his eye from the tip of the rifle foresight. "Gawd," he whispered, "I 'ave 'im now. I saw somefin' move just like a bird. I'll give 'im a round."

"Don't," muttered Flanagan, under his breath. "It's no good firing if you're not sure of your man. One shot will give us away, and that's the twentieth time you've seen him; each time in a different spot. He's not like a bird; he can't be in two places at one time.... What the hell! Don't move!"

"A cramp in my guts!" groaned Bubb, wriggling a little. "Gawd, it isn't 'arf giving me gyp! Ooh—whooh!"

The youth kicked out with both legs, raised his head an inch or two, then brought it down again to the level of the earth. Flanagan swore under his breath and cursed Bubb with vehemence.

"I can't 'elp it," said Bubb. "I must move. I'd rather 'ave a bullet in the 'ead than a cramp in my belly. Wooh! It'll twist me up like a 'edge 'og!"

"Matey," whispered Flanagan, turning half left and fixing his eyes on Spudhole.

"Wot!"

"You know that if you're seen moving you'll get a bullet across here——"

"I don't care a damn," said Bubb.

"But I do," muttered Flanagan. "Next time I come out sniping I'm going to take a man with me; one that won't give a position away when he has got a sore tummy——"

"I'm not going to move no more," said Bubb. "I'm going to be as quiet as a sandbag. Ooh-wooh!"

"How's your cramp now?" asked Flanagan, when Bubb had kept quiet for a good ten minutes. "Gone, is it?"

"It's 'opped it," said Spudhole with a laugh. "Blimey!"

Both men cowered to earth giggling nervously as the bomb burst, scattering a cloud of dust over them. A second shell burst, and a third.

"They must have spotted us," said Flanagan, frowning at the fields.

"If they have it's all up."

But the shelling ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the youngsters breathed freely again.

"Cleaning out their guns, I suppose," said Flanagan. "Lucky they didn't clean us out of existence.... I'm tired of waiting here."

"I'm tired an' 'ungry an' 'ot," said Bubb. "But we can't get out of this damned place till night ... they won't 'arf 'ave the laugh on us when we go back."

"Not half," said Flanagan absently.

"And I bet Captain Thorley a bob I'd lay the sniper by the 'eels," said Bubb. "But it's no go."

"Well, where can the fellow be?" asked Flanagan, removing a speck of dust from the backsight of his rifle with a cautious hand. "No man can fire at us from the German trench. It's behind a rise, and even if one of the Boches looks over the parapet he can't see our trench. But still the fact remains that no sooner does one of our boys look over than a bullet zipps past his ear. Where does the bullet come from? The sniper must be between the lines. He must, but where?"

Spudhole shrugged his shoulders helplessly and muttered: "We was fools comin' out 'ere. But 'e 'as done for four of our fellers an' 'e must die. If 'e doesn't...."

He shook a cautious little head and became silent. The sun sank down the sky, and its sight slid along the barrels of the rifles from hand-guard to muzzle whenever the weapons were moved. Flanagan crunched a biscuit with zealous teeth; Bubb traced furrows in the ground with his trigger finger, but all the time kept his eyes fixed on the front.

"Our boys are makin' tea now," he said. "It's about four o'clock, I suppose ... that damned sun's in no 'urry neither. There!" he ejaculated suddenly. "One of our boys 'as put 'is 'ead over the trench! Wait."

Both men heard it, a smothered shriek like the sound of a drowning puppy.

"'E 'as got it in the 'ead," said Bubb in a fierce voice. "The bloody fool! Flan!"

"What is it, Bubb?"

"I saw smoke," said Bubb, speaking calmly. "Just look over. See a little holler near the German lines? Yes? Well, there's a dead man there wiv 'is knees curled up. Got im? That's the place. I saw a puff of smoke and somefing moved. Look, Flan, see somefing shining?"

"I see it," said Flanagan.

"The sun's catchin' the sniper's 'ipe."

Both the youngsters drew their weapons taut to their shoulders and adjusted their sights.

"Four-fifty?" inquired Bubb, adjusting his sight to four hundred and fifty yards.

"A little lower, a little lower," said Flanagan. "Make it four and you'll not be far out.... It'll be hard to judge ... if we hit the dead man. He'll not raise a dust. You aim first, Bubb."

Bubb's left cheek twitched, and his eye took in the objective. He pulled the trigger. A spurt of dust flew into air a little to the rear of the dead man.

"Aim low, and we'll get him next time," said Flanagan.

Both rifles spoke together. A figure detached itself from the limp lump which lay in the hollow near the enemy's lines, rose to a standing position, and beat the air with agitated arms.

Thus for a moment, then the Thing collapsed in an abject heap on the ground.

"That's all," said Bubb. "The boys in the trench are firin' now. They'll finish 'im off if 'e's not done in already."

The rifles cracked spitefully in the trench which rimmed the base of the slag-heap, the sun sank lower and the shadows lengthened. The two youngsters broke biscuits, gnawed vigorously and waited for the darkness to fall.

CHAPTER XIII THE TRENCHES

The trench is a world within itself, having customs, joys and griefs peculiar to its limitations. The inmates can only claim for the most part a short existence; they have degrees of opulence and poverty, but the former is far removed from those who are legally heirs to it, and all the dwellers in the trench commune share their poverty in common. The word "ours" is on all lips; save for a few relics of outside civilisation there is nothing which a man claims as "mine." Food and drink and clothing are "ours," as also are the parcels from home, though the men to whom they are addressed have generally the privilege of opening them. Money has lost all its value: for the time being food is not sold here, and all men have to work at the same job, and they work well, for the safety of their bodies depends upon the labour of their hands. Again, in the carping times of peace a soldier may depend upon the sweat of others for his daily needs; here in the trenches he is a Socialist in the highest sense of the much-abused word.

The life of the Commune is seldom monotonous, its uncertainty makes it interesting, its novelty never wanes. The trench has its history, every dug-out a legend, and the shell-riven alleys of war are steeped in tradition. The narratives of the trench are handed on from regiment to regiment, a word or two on the firestep while the battalion just going out changes places with the relieving battalion, and the legend of an adjacent dug-out is made plain.

Such scraps of conversation as these may be heard. "That dug-out on the left got a 'ole in the roof the other night. A time-expired man who was going off to Blighty the next day went in there and lay down to kip. A whizz-bang 'it the roof, and the poor bloke went west."

"The Germans occupied these trenches at one time; the Guards charged them, and not a man escaped. You'll see their dug-outs all along here."

"A sniper used to play 'ell with this bay a month ago. 'E used to send the bullets into the trench. It took the men some time to discover 'im. Then they got 'im. 'E was up on the top of a chimney-stack in the village behind the German trench. 'E could see right down the trench. Our artillery brought the chimney down and the sniper with it."

So the stories are told and retold, and passed from one set of soldiers to the next who occupy the trenches.

No doubt stories become distorted and enlarged in the course of time, but always there is a grain of truth in the most exaggerated trench story; and every tale gives an added interest and a subtle touch of romance to the locality. The mean, primitive trench, the home of the Brown Brethren, is not without certain features of grandeur, and an atmosphere of mystery pervades the whole place, due, no doubt, to its close association with death.

It was yet dark in the trenches of the Cologne sector, a much be-shelled locality on Vimy Ridge, but a faint subdued flush showed on the Eastern sky far away behind the enemy's line. Stars were twinkling coldly clear overhead and a keen wind rustled along the floor of the trench. Vague mutterings and rumblings could be heard in the dug-outs; the men already warned to stand to arms on the banquette were snatching a few moments' extra repose; hugging with miserly desire at an additional minute's rest. Sergeant Snogger came running along the trench shouting. "Stand to! Stand to!" he called. There was no particular hurry for the sector was then a comparatively quiet one. But the sergeant merely ran because a brisk race was a most effective means of driving away the sleepy feeling which was fostered by the narcotic odours of the dug-out.

The men turned out yawning and swearing, then broke into a brisk run round a near traverse and back again to their posts by the dew-besprinkled bayonets. One man looked across the parapet, fixed an indifferent eye on the Ridge, then burst into a rag-time chorus which a mate took up with vigour.

The Zouave Wood, the shell-scarred spinney where the trees were flung broadcast by high concussion shells, lay on the left, wrapped in shadow and hiding many mysteries. In it was many a little grave where the kindly earth covered friend and foe alike. It was a place of many secrets, of strange and vague whispering. There, in the dawn, the spirits of the dead men seemed to hold converse. But by day the earth could not hide them, the weapons of the quick dug them again from the graves and flung them out on the riven spaces of the restless earth.

The air was cold and keen. The men covered their chins with the collars of their khaki coats, lit their cigarettes and leant against the parapet. They dozed for a moment and then woke guiltily with a start. Nobody had noticed them, they dozed again.... The east flushed crimson, the German trench to the left showed dark against the glow and stood out distinctly. A sniper's bullet ripped a sandbag and a shower of fine white dust dropped into the trench. No one paid any heed.... The birds were out hopping from prop to prop of the barbed wire entanglements. A lark soared into air pouring out an ecstatic song.... The dead men on the levels could now be seen lying close to the earth in limp and ghastly attitudes, the birds singing above them.... The sun was up; a million dewdrops sparkled in a glorious jewelled disarray on the wires.... The field had taken on a greener hue and in many places the daisies peeped timidly up from the soft grasses.... A white mist circled round the spinney and the gashes in the trees became more distinct. Looking southwards down on to the level lands one could see the Double Crassier tailing out on one side to the village of Loos and on the other side to the mining hamlet of Maroc.... Away down on the left, twelve kilometres away, lay Lens with its many chimneys, and a number of the chimneys smoking. The enemy were probably working the mines. The terra-cotta houses stood out very distinct and seemed nearer to us than they really were. The air was very clear and a perfect flood of brilliant sunshine lit the town, the enemy's trench and the dead men lying out on the field.