er.

"Not so bad, ye know," was the answer.

"This place smells 'orrid," muttered Bill, lighting a cigarette and
flinging on his pack. "What is it?"

"Some poor devils between the trenches; they've been lyin' there since
last Christmas."

"Blimey, what a stink," muttered Bill, "Why don't ye bury them up?"

"Because nobody dare go out there, me boy," was the answer. "Anyway,
it's Germans they are. They made a charge and didn't get as far as
here. They went out of step so to speak."

"Woo-oo-oo!" Bill suddenly yelled and kicked a tin pail on to the floor
of the trench. A shower of sparks flew up into the air and fluttered
over the rim of the parapet. "I put my 'and on it, 'twas like a (p. 086)
red 'ot poker, it burned me to the bone!"

"It's the brazier ye were foolin' about with," said Mike, who was
buckling his pack-straps preparatory to moving, "See, and don't put
yer head over the top, and don't light a fire at night. Ye can put up
as much flare as you like by day. Good-bye, boys, and good luck t'ye."

"Any Donegal men in the battalion?" I called after him as he was
moving off.

"None that I know of," he shouted back, "but there are two other
battalions that are not here, maybe there are Donegal men there. Good
luck, boys, good luck!"

We were alone and lonely, nearly every man of us. For myself I felt
isolated from the whole world, alone in front of the little line of
sand bags with my rifle in my hand. Who were we? Why were we there?
Goliath, the junior clerk, who loved Tennyson; Pryor, the draughtsman,
who doted on Omar; Kore, who read Fanny Eden's penny stories, and
never disclosed his profession; Mervin, the traveller, educated for
the Church but schooled in romance; Stoner, the clerk, who reads my
books and says he never read better; and Bill, newsboy, street-arab,
and Lord knows what, who reads _The Police News_, plays (p. 087)
innumerable tricks with cards, and gambles and never wins. Why were we
here holding a line of trench, and ready to take a life or give one as
occasion required? Who shall give an answer to the question?

CHAPTER VII (p. 088)

BLOOD AND IRON--AND DEATH

At night the stars are shining bright,
The old-world voice is whispering near,
We've heard it when the moon was light,
And London's streets were verydear;
But dearer now they are, sweetheart,
The 'buses running to the Strand,
B