They file in, sleepy and
dishevelled, through an archway in the parapet, on their way to
dug-outs and repose. The last man in the procession is Bobby Little,
who has been in charge all night.
Our line here makes a sharp bend round the corner of an orchard, and
for security's sake a second trench has been cut behind, making, as
it were, the cross-bar of a capital A. The apex of the A is no health
resort. Brother Bosche, as already explained, is only fifty yards
away, and his trench-mortars make excellent practice with the parapet.
So the Orchard Trench is only occupied at night, and the alternative
route, which is well constructed and comparatively safe, is used by
all careful persons who desire to proceed from one arm of the A to the
other.
The present party are the night picket, thankfully relinquishing their
vigil round the apex.
Bobby Little remained to bid his company-commander good-morning at the
junction of the two trenches.
"Any casualties?" An invariable question at this spot.
"No, sir. We were lucky. There was a lot of sniping."
"It's a rum profession," mused Captain Blaikie, who was in a wakeful
mood.
"In what way, sir?" inquired the sleepy but respectful Bobby.
"Well"--Captain Blaikie began to fill his pipe--"who takes about
nine-tenths of the risk, and does practically all the hard work in the
Army? The private and the subaltern--you and your picket, in fact.
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