both
sides."

"W'y don't they get on with it? Wot to blazes are we a-doin' of, givin'
'em a chanct to get dug in again? 'Ere we all but got 'em on the run an'
the 'ole show stops!"

The continuation of the offensive was the chief topic of conversation.
The men dreaded it, but they were anxious to get through with the
business. They believed that now if ever there was the chance to push the
Germans out of France.

In the mean time the day's work was still the day's work. There were
nightly bombing affairs, some of them most desperate hand-to-hand
contests for the possession of small sectors of trench. One of these I
witnessed from a trench sixty yards away. The advantage lay with us. The
enemy held only the center of the line and were forced to meet attacks
from either end. However, they had a communication trench connecting with
their second line, through which carrying parties brought them a
limitless supply of bombs.

The game of pitch and toss over the barricades had continued for several
days without a decision. Then came orders for more decisive action. The
barricades were to be destroyed and the enemy bombed out. In underground
fighting of this kind the element of surprise is possible. If one
opponent can be suddenly overwhelmed with a heavy rain of bombs, the
chances of success for the attacking party are quite favorable.

The action took place at dusk. Shortly before the hour set, the bombers,
all of them boys in their early twenties, filed slowly along the trench,
the pockets of their grenade waistcoats bulging with "lemons" and
"cricket balls," as the two most effective kinds of bombs are called.
They went to their places with that spirit of stolid cheeriness which is
the wonder and admiration of every one who knows Tommy Atkins intimately.
Formerly, when I saw him in this mood, I would think, "He doesn't
realize. Men don't go out to meet death like this." But long association
with him had convinced me of the error of this opinion. These men knew
that death or terrible injury was in store for many of them; yet they
were talking in excited and gleeful undertones, as they might have passed
through the gates at a football match.

"Are we downhearted? Not likely, old son!"

"Tyke a feel o' this little puffball! Smack on old Fritzie's napper she
goes!"

"I'm a-go'n' to arsk fer a nice Blightey one! Four months in Brentford
'ospital an' me Christmas puddin' at 'ome!"

"Now, don't ferget, you blokes! Cou