The thin trickle of
rifle fire only accentuated the stillness of an early summer morning. Far
down the line Tommy could be heard, singing to himself as he sat in the
door of his dugout, cleaning his rifle, or making a careful scrutiny of
his shirt for those unwelcome little parasites which made life so
miserable for him at all times. There were pleasant cracklings of burning
pine sticks and the sizzle of frying bacon. Great swarms of bluebottle
flies buzzed lazily in the warm sunshine. Sometimes, across a pool of
noonday silence, we heard birds singing; for the birds didn't desert us.
When we gave them a hearing, they did their cheery little best to assure
us that everything would come right in the end. Once we heard a skylark,
an English skylark, singing over No-Man's-Land! I scarcely know which
gave me more pleasure, the song, or the sight of the faces of those
English lads as they listened. I was deeply touched when one of them
said:--

"Ain't 'e a plucky little chap, singin' right in front of Fritzie's
trenches fer us English blokes?"

It was a sincere and fitting tribute, as perfect for a soldier as
Shelley's "Ode" for a poet.

Along the part of the British front which we held during the summer, the
opposing lines of trenches were from less than a hundred to four hundred
and fifty or five hundred yards apart. When we were neighborly as regards
distance, we were also neighborly as regards social intercourse. In the
early mornings when the heavy night mists still concealed the lines, the
boys stood head and shoulders above the parapet and shouted:--

"Hi, Fritzie!"

And the greeting was returned:--

"Hi, Tommy!"

Then we conversed. Very few of us knew German, but it is surprising how
many Germans could speak English. Frequently they shouted, "Got any
'woodbines,' Tommy?"--his favorite brand of cigarettes; and Tommy would
reply, "Sure! Shall I bring 'em over or will you come an' fetch 'em?"
This was often the ice-breaker, the beginning of a conversation which
varied considerably in other details.

"Who are you?" Fritzie would shout.

And Tommy, "We're the King's Own 'Ymn of 'Aters"; some such subtle
repartee as that. "Wot's your mob?"

"We're a battalion of Irish rifles." The Germans liked to provoke us by
pretending that the Irish were disloyal to England.

Sometimes they shouted:--

"Any of you from London?"

"Not arf! Wot was you a-doin' of in London? Witin' tible at Sam Isaac's
fish-shop?"

Th