h, like rats in a trap we waited for the
next moment which might land us into eternity. The excitement of a
bayonet charge, the mad tussle with death on the blood-stained field,
which for some reason is called the field of honour was denied us; we
had to wait and lie in the trench, which looked so like a grave, and
sink slowly into the depths of depression.

Everything seemed so monstrously futile, so unfinished, so (p. 197)
useless. Would the dawn see us alive or dead? What did it matter? All
that we desired was that this were past, that something, no matter
what, came and relieved us of our position. All my fine safeguards
against terrible wounds were neglected. What did it matter where a
shell hit me now, a weak useless thing at the bottom of a trench? Let
it come, blow me to atoms, tear me to pieces, what did I care? I felt
like one in a horrible nightmare; unable to help myself. I lay passive
and waited.

I believe I dozed off at intervals. Visions came before my eyes, the
sandbags on the parapet assumed fantastic shapes, became alive and
jeered down at me. I saw Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran, the lively
youth who is so real to all the children of Donegal, look down at me
from the top of the trench. He carried a long, glistening bayonet in
his hand and laughed at me. I thought him a fool for ever coming near
the field of war. War! Ah, it amused him! He laughed at me. I was
afraid; he was not; he was afraid of nothing. What would Bill think of
him? I turned to the Cockney; but he knelt there, head to the earth,
a motionless Moslem. Was he asleep? Probably he was; any way it (p. 198)
did not matter.

The dawn came slowly, a gradual awaking from darkness into a cheerless
day, cloudy grey and pregnant with rain that did not fall. Now and
again we could hear bombs bursting out in front and still the
artillery thundered at our communication trench.

Bill sat upright rubbing his chest.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"What's wrong! Everythink," he answered. "There are platoons of
intruders on my shirt, sappin' and diggin' trenches and Lord knows
wot!"

"Verminous, Bill?"

"Cooty as 'ell," he said. "But wait till I go back to England. I'll go
inter a beershop and get a pint, a gallon, a barrel--"

"A hogshead," I prompted.

"I've got one, my own napper's an 'og's 'ead," said Bill.

"When I get the beer I'll capture a coot, a big bull coot, an' make
'im drunk," he continued. "When 'e's in a fightin' mo