Half a dozen of the men, and all the officers, followed him. That was
just a week ago.
* * * * *
Captain Wagstaffe broke the silence at last.
"It's a rotten business, war," he said pensively--"when you come to
think of it. Hallo, there goes the first star-shell! Come along,
Bobby!"
Dusk had fallen. From the German trenches a thin luminous thread
stole up into the darkening sky, leaned over, drooped, and burst
into dazzling brilliance over the British parapet. Simultaneously a
desultory rifle fire crackled down the lines. The night's work had
begun.
XIX
THE TRIVIAL ROUND
We have been occupying trenches, off and on, for a matter of two
months, and have settled down to an unexhilarating but salutary
routine. Each dawn we "stand to arms," and peer morosely over the
parapet, watching the grey grass turn slowly to green, while snipers'
bullets buzz over our heads. Each forenoon we cleanse our dew-rusted
weapons, and build up with sandbags what the persevering Teuton
has thrown down. Each afternoon we creep unostentatiously into
subterranean burrows, while our respective gunners, from a safe
position in the rear, indulge in what they humorously describe as "an
artillery duel." The humour arises from the fact that they fire, not
at one another, but at us. It is as if two big boys, having declared
a vendetta, were to assuage their hatred and satisfy their honour by
going out every afternoon and throwing stones at one another's little
brothers.
Pages:
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242