ous, intangible danger.

But of the reality. . . .

It is all contained in the one axiom--Kill, and kill at once, so as to
have a maximum of time to kill more. And with the bayonet, do not let
it be imagined for a moment that the work is easy. Bayonet fighting
requires perfect condition, a fair share of strength, and a quick eye.
Mistakes, when a man comes to the real thing, are not likely to occur
twice, and there are many things which a man must learn who aspires to
become even as Jimmy O'Shea.

How to go round a traverse when a Boche is on the other side, and it's
him or you; how to take on three men in succession, when the last one
throws his arms round your neck, and burbles, "Ve vos friends--nein?"
Jimmy was great on that point: with the bayonet jabbed upwards into the
chin, and the sapient remark, "Ve _vos_, ma tear." But enough; this is
not a treatise on bayonet fighting, and I have in mind to tell of
O'Shea's last fight.

There is just one more scene which comes back vividly before I reach
the end, and that is the final exercise he gave his men in their
training. When they'd thrust and parried and stabbed; when they'd
jumped trenches and thrust their bayonets into sacks on the other side;
when they'd been confronted with strange balls of straw in unexpected
places, and kicked them or jabbed them or bit them as the case might
be--then came the gem, the _bonne bouche_.

These preliminary practices were only one stroke, one thrust; the last
was a fight to the death in a manner of speaking, and it was generally
preceded by one of Jimmy's better stories. The best he kept for
recital just before going over the top; so as to send 'em along
frothing at the mouth, as he put it.

"You don't remember Captain Trent, do you, boys?" he'd begin. "Just
stand easy a while, and I'll tell you about him. After that you've got
to fight a bit. He was a great officer, boys, a grand officer--one of
the best. Did you ever hear how he was killed? Come out here,
Malvaney; we'll just start the scrapping while I tell you. Do you see
this straw ball on the top of the stick? As long as it's off the
ground, it's a German. Hit it, stick it, bite it, kick it, and go on
till I put it on the ground again. And curse, you blighter, curse.
Just think it's the German who stuck his bayonet into Captain
Trent--one of _your_ officers--while he was lying on the ground wounded
in the head."

The ball began to dance. "Go on, Malva