ver; they had not even the chance the
fighting man has where at least his hand may save his head. Their
business was to stand in the one spot, open and unprotected, and
without hope of cover or protection for a good hour or more on end.
They must pay no heed to the singing bullets, to the crash of a
bursting shell, to the rising and falling glow of the flares. Simply
they must give body and mind to the job in hand, and dig and dig and
keep on digging. There had been many brave deeds done by the fighting
men on that day: there had been bold leading and bold following in the
first rush across the open against a tornado of fire; there had been
forlorn-hope dashes for ammunition or to pick up wounded; there had
been dogged and desperate courage in clinging all day to the battered
trench under an earth-shaking tempest of high-explosive shells, bombs,
and bullets. But it is doubtful if the day or the night had seen more
nerve-trying, courage-testing work, more deliberate and long-drawn
bravery than was shown, as a matter of course and as a part of the job,
in the digging of that communication trench.

It was done at last, and although it might not be a Class One
Exhibition bit of work, it was, as Beefy Wilson remarked, 'a deal
better'n none.' And although the trench was already a foot deep in
water, Beefy stated no more than bald truth in saying, 'Come to-morrow
there's plenty will put up glad wi' their knees bein' below high-water
mark for the sake o' havin' their heads below low bullet-mark.'

But, if the trench was finished, the night's work for the Engineers was
not. They were moved up into the captured trench, and told that they
had to repair it and wire out in front of it before they were done.

They had half an hour's rest before recommencing work, and Beefy Wilson
and Jem Duffy hugged the shelter of some tumbled sandbags, lit their
pipes and turned the bowls down, and exchanged reminiscences.

'Let's see,' said Beefy. 'Isn't Jigger Adams in your lot?'

'Was,' corrected Jem, 'till an hour ago. 'E's out yon wi' a bullet in
'im--stiff by now.'

Beefy breathed blasphemous regrets. 'Rough on 'is missus an' the kids.
Six of 'em, weren't it?'

'Aw,' assented Jem. 'But she'll get suthin' from the Society funds.'

'Not a ha'porth,' said Beefy. 'You'll remem--no, it was just arter you
left. The trades unions decided no benefits would be paid out for them
as 'listed. It was Ben Shrillett engineered that. 'E