Officers breakfasting in their billets look up from their porridge,
and say,--
"That's a dud! _That's_ a better one! Stick to it, Bill!"
It really is most discouraging, to a sensitive and conscientious Hun.
The same unconcern reigns in the trenches. Let us imagine that we are
members of a distinguished party from Headquarters, about to make a
tour of inspection.
We leave the town, and after a short walk along the inevitable
poplar-lined road turn into a field. The country all round us is
flat--flat as Cheshire; and, like Cheshire, has a pond in every field.
But in the hazy distance stands a low ridge.
"Better keep close to the hedge," suggests the officer in charge.
"There are eighty guns on that ridge. It's a misty morning; but
they've got all the ranges about here to a yard; so they _might_--"
We keep close to the hedge.
Presently we find ourselves entering upon a wide but sticky path
cut in the clay. At the entrance stands a neat notice-board, which
announces, somewhat unexpectedly:--
OLD KENT ROAD
The field is flat, but the path runs downhill. Consequently we soon
find ourselves tramping along below the ground-level, with a
stout parapet of clay on either side of us. Overhead there is
nothing--nothing but the blue sky, with the larks singing, quite
regardless of the War.
"Communication trench," explains the guide.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185