omin' over us that you couldn't see the sky. They was like crows up
above."

"They were?"

"We were in the trenches then," Bill said. "The orficer comes up and
sez: 'Things are getting despirate! We've got to charge. 'Ool foller
me?' 'I'm with you!' I sez, and up I jumps on the parapet pulling a
machine gun with me."

"A machine gun!" said the red-haired man.

"A machine gun," Bill went on. "When one is risen 'e can do anything.
I could 'ave lifted a 'ole battery on my shoulders because I was mad.
I 'ad a look to my front to get the position then I goes forward.
'Come back, cried the orficer as 'e fell----"

"Fell!"

"'E got a bullet through his bread basket and 'e flopped. But there
was no 'oldin' o' me. 'Twas death or glory, neck 'an nothin', 'ell for
leather at that moment. The London Irish blood was up; one of the
Chelsea Cherubs was out for red blood 'olesale and retail. I slung the
machine gun on my shoulder, sharpened my bayonet with a piece of
sand-paper, took the first line o' barbed wire entanglements at (p. 219)
a jump and got caught on the second. It gored me like a bull. I got
six days C.B. for 'avin' the rear of my trousers torn when we came out
o' the trenches."

"Tell me something I can believe," said the red-haired youth.

"Am I not tellin' you something," asked Bill. "Nark it, matey, nark
it. I tell Gospel-stories and you'll not believe me."

"But it's all tommy rot."

"Is it? The Germans did'nt think so when I charged plunk into the
middle of 'em. Yer should 'ave been there to see it. They were all
round me and two taubes over 'ead watching my movements. Swish! and my
bayonet went through the man in front and stabbed the identity disc of
another. When I drew the bayonet out the butt of my 'ipe[3] would 'it
a man behind me in the tummy. Ugh! 'e would say and flop bringing a
mate down with 'im may be. The dead was all round me and I built a
parapet of their bodies, puttin' the legs criss-cross and makin' loop
'oles. Then they began to bomb me from the other side. 'Twas gettin'
'ot I tell you and I began to think of my 'ome; the dug-out in (p. 220)
the trench. What was I to do? If I crossed the open they'd bring me
down with a bullet. There was only one thing to be done. I had my
boots on me for three 'ole weeks of 'ot weather, 'otter than this and
beer not so near as it is now----"

[Footnote 3: Rifle.]

"Have another drink, Bill?" I asked.

"Glad yer took the