as long as my arm. I was sitting on
the fire step cleaning my rifle and Wellsie sank dejectedly down
beside me.

"Darby," he sighed hopelessly, "wot th' blinkin' 'ell do you think
is up now?"

I hadn't the faintest idea and said so. I had, however, as the
educated Bones used to say "a premonition of impending disaster."
As a premonitor I was a success. Disaster was right.

Wellsie sighed again and spilled the news.

"We're goin' over th' bleedin' top at nine. We don't 'ave to carry
no tools. We're in the first bloomin' wave."

Going without tools was supposed to be a sort of consolation for
being in the first wave. The other three waves carry either picks
or shovels. They consolidate the trenches after they have been
taken by the first wave. That is, they turn the trench around,
facing the other way, to be ready for a counter attack. It is a
miserable job. The tools are heavy and awkward, and the last waves
get the cream of the artillery fire, as the Boche naturally does
not want to take the chance of shelling the first wave for fear of
getting his own men. However, the first wave gets the machine-gun
fire and gets it good. At that the first wave is the preference. I
have heard hundreds of men say so. Probably the reason is that a
bullet, unless it is explosive, makes a relatively clean wound,
while a shell fragment may mangle fearfully.

Wells and I were talking over the infernal injustice of the
situation when another runner arrived from the Sergeant Major's,
ordering us up for the rum issue. I went up for the rum and left
Wells to break the news about going over.

I got an extra large supply, as the Sergeant Major was good
humored. It was the last rum he ever served. I got enough for the
full platoon and then some, which was a lot, as the platoon was
well down in numbers owing to casualties. I went among the boys
with a spoon and the rum in a mess tin and served out two tots
instead of the customary one. After that all hands felt a little
better, but not much. They were all fagged out after the week's
hard work. I don't think I ever saw a more discouraged lot getting
ready to go over. For myself I didn't seem to care much, I was in
such rotten condition physically. I rather hoped it would be my
last time.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST TIME OVER THE TOP

A general cleaning of rifles started, although it was dark. Mine
was already in good shape, and I leaned it against the side of the
trench and went