structions. The enemy knew the
communication trench; they had got the range months before and at one
time the trench was occupied by them.

We got into the trench at the time when the attack took place; our
artillery was now silent and rapid rifle fire went on in front; a life
and death struggle was in progress there. In our trench it was very
quiet, we were packed tight as the queue at the gallery door of a
cheap music-hall on a Saturday night.

"Blimey, a balmy this!" said Bill making frantic efforts to squash my
toes in his desire to find a fair resting place for his feet. (p. 186)
"I'm 'ungry. Call this the best fed army in the world. Dog and maggot
all the bloomin' time. I need all the hemery paper given to clean my
bayonet, to sharpen my teeth to eat the stuff. How are we goin' to
sleep this night, Pat?"

"Standing."

"Like a blurry 'oss. But Stoner's all right," said Bill. Stoner was
all right; somebody had dug a little burrow at the base of the
traverse and he was lying there already asleep.

We stood in the trench till eight o'clock almost suffocated. It was
impossible for the company to spread out, on the right we were
touching the supports, on the left was a communication trench leading
to the point of attack, and this was occupied by part of another
battalion. We were hemmed in on all sides, a compressed company in
full marching order with many extra rounds of ammunition and empty
stomachs.

I was telling a story to the boys, one that Pryor and Goliath gave
credence to, but which the others refused to believe. It was a tale of
two trench-mortars, squat little things that loiter about the firing
line and look for all the world like toads ready to hop off. I came on
two of these the night before, crept on them unawares and found (p. 187)
them speaking to one another.

"Nark it, Pat," muttered Bill lighting a cigarette. "Them talking. Git
out!"

"Of course you don't understand," I said. "The trench-mortar has a
soul, a mind and great discrimination," I told him.

"What's a bomb?" asked Bill.

"'Tis the soul finding expression. Last night they were speaking, as I
have said. They had a wonderful plan in hand. They decided to steal
away and drink a bottle of wine in Givenchy."

"Blimey!"

"They did not know the way out and at that moment up comes Wee Hughie
Gallagher of Dooran; in his sea-green bonnet, his salmon-pink coat,
and buff tint breeches and silver shoon and mounted one of the
ho