hand, bayonet fixed, on the alert
for signs of a surprise attack. If it was a bombardment with shrapnel,
Tommy was not greatly concerned, for in trenches he is fairly safe from
shrapnel fire. But if the shells were large-caliber high explosives, he
crouched close to the front wall of the trench, lamenting the day he was
foolish enough to become an infantryman, "a bloomin' 'uman ninepin!"
Covered with dirt, sometimes half-buried in fallen trench, he wagered his
next week's tobacco rations that the London papers would print the same
old story: "Along the western front there is nothing to report." And
usually he won.

Trench mortaring was more to our liking. That is an infantryman's game,
and, while extremely hazardous, the men in the trenches have a sporting
chance. Every one forgot breakfast when word was passed down the line
that we were going to "mortarfy" Fritzie. The last-relief night sentries,
who had just tumbled sleepily into their dugouts, tumbled out of them
again to watch the fun. Fatigue parties, working in the communication
trenches, dropped their picks and shovels and came hurrying up to the
first line. Eagerly, expectantly, every one waited for the sport to
begin. Our projectiles were immense balls of hollow steel, filled with
high explosive of tremendous power. They were fired from a small gun,
placed, usually, in the first line of reserve trenches. A dull boom from
the rear warned us that the game had started.

"There she is!" "See 'er? Goin' true as a die!" "She's go'n' to 'it!
She's go'n' to 'it!" All of the boys would be shouting at once. Up it
goes, turning over and over, rising to a height of several hundred feet.
Then, if well aimed, it reaches the end of its upward journey directly
over the enemy's line, and falls straight into his trench. There is a
moment of silence, followed by a terrific explosion which throws dirt and
debris high in the air. By this time every Tommy along the line is
standing on the firing-bench, head and shoulders above the parapet, quite
forgetting his own danger in his excitement, and shouting at the top of
his voice.

"'Ow's that one, Fritzie boy?"

"Gooten morgen, you Proosian sausage-wallopers!"

"Tyke a bit o' that there 'ome to yer missus!"

But Fritzie could be depended upon to keep up his end of the game. He
gave us just as good as we sent, and often he added something for full
measure. His surprises were sausage-shaped missiles which came wobbling
toward us,