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[pg 157] CHAPTER XII THE DAY'S WORK <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> It's bloomin' well still the same, Ever and always the same, Right in the thick of it, Not feelin' sick of it, Naw! but it's always the same, the same. </div> <div class="stanza"> I like the 'ole bisness, not 'alf, Son of the Empire, not 'alf! Le guerre never finny, It's whizzbang and Minnie, And always the usual strafe, strafe, strafe. </div> <div class="stanza"> For ever and ever the same, Bloomin' well always the same; If the guns for a change Would just lengthen their range, But naw! they just strafe us the same. </div> <div class="stanza"> (From Trench Doggerel.) </div> </div> 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 [pg 158] 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, [pg 159] 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 [pg 160] 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, [pg 161] 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 [pg 162] 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——" [pg 163] "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 [pg 164] 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 [pg 165] 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. [pg 166] "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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