_
"Still, I'm not sure," he continued, slapping his bald head with a
bandana handkerchief, "that a whiff of chlorine or bromine wouldn't do
these trenches a considerable amount of good. It would tone down some
of the deceased a bit, and wipe out these infernal flies. Waddell, if
I give you a shilling, will you take it over to the German trenches
and ask them to drop it into the meter?"
"I do not think, sir," replied the literal Waddell, "that an English
shilling would fit a German meter. Probably a mark would be required,
and I have only a franc. Besides, sir, do you think that--"
"Surgical operation at seven-thirty, sharp!" intimated the major to
the medical officer, who entered the dug-out at that moment. "For
our friend here"--indicating the bewildered Waddell. "Sydney Smith's
prescription! Now, what about breakfast?"
* * * * *
About nine o'clock the enemy indulges in what is usually described,
most disrespectfully, as "a little morning hate"--in other words, a
bombardment. Beginning with a _hors d'oeuvre_ of shrapnel along the
reserve trench--much to the discomfort of Headquarters, who are
shaving--he proceeds to "search" a tract of woodland in our immediate
rear, his quarry being a battery of motor machine-guns, which has
wisely decamped some hours previously. Then, after scientifically
"traversing" our second line, which has rashly advertised its position
and range by cooking its breakfast over a smoky fire, he brings the
display to a superfluous conclusion by dropping six "Black Marias"
into the deserted ruins of a village not far behind us.
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