ising how quickly the men became accustomed to the
nerve-trying duties in the firing-line. Fortunately for Tommy, the longer
he is in the army, the greater becomes his indifference to danger. His
philosophy is fatalistic. "What is to be will be" is his only comment
when one of his comrades is killed. A bullet or a shell works with such
lightning speed that danger is passed before one realizes that it is at
hand. Therefore, men work doggedly, carelessly, and in the background of
consciousness there is always that comforting belief, common to all
soldiers, that "others may be killed, but somehow, I shall escape."

The most important in-trench duty, as well as the most wearisome one for
the men, is their period on "sentry-go." Eight hours in twenty-four--four
two-hour shifts--each man stands at his post on the firing-bench, rifle
in hand, keeping a sharp lookout over the "front yard." At night he
observes as well as he can over the top of the parapet; in the daytime by
means of his periscope. Most of our large periscopes were shattered by
keen-sighted German snipers. We used a very good substitute, one of the
simplest kind, a piece of broken pocket mirror placed on the end of a
split stick, and set at an angle on top of the parados. During the two
hours of sentry duty we had nothing to do other than to keep watch and
keep awake. The latter was by far the more difficult business at night.

"'Ere, sergeant!" Tommy would say, as the platoon sergeant felt his way
along the trench in the darkness, "w'en is the next relief comin' on? Yer
watch needs a good blacksmith. I been on sentry three hours if I been a
minute!"

"Never you mind about my watch, son! You got another forty-five minutes
to do."

"Will you listen to that, you blokes! S'y! I could myke a better
timepiece out of an old bully tin! I'm tellin' you straight, I'll be
asleep w'en you come 'round again!"

But he isn't. Although the temptation may be great, Tommy isn't longing
for a court-martial. When the platoon officer or the company commander
makes his hourly rounds, flashing his electric pocket lamp before him, he
is ready with a cheery "Post all correct, sir!" He whistles or sings to
himself until, at last, he hears the platoon sergeant waking the next
relief by whacking the soles of their boots with his rifle butt.

"Wake up 'ere! Come along, my lads! Your sentry-go!"

CHAPTER IX

BILLETS