 CHAPTER VIII. BACK TO HIS OWN. We're out for a duration now and do not care a cuss, there's beer to spare at dinnertime and afters now for us. But if our buddies still were out in Flanders raising cane, we'd weather through with those who knew on bully beef again. The old sweats, the grubbit was skimped with the old sweats, but if rations was small, it was the same for us all, same for the old of the old sweats. From soldier songs. The dark night clung close to the wet levels of no man's land, and a breeze whimpered across the grasses, crooning wearily. The whole world seemed tired, the star shells rose lazily over the German trenches, burned drowsily for a space and fell sluggishly to earth. The light failing, the circle of horizon grew less, and objects quite close at hand became hidden from view. The hour was about ten, and bowdy banners fell tired and sleepy. He was sick of it all, the night raids, the attacks, and balmy encounters. His mind turned to home, quiet London, of the peaceful houses, the easy nights of untroubled sleep, afternoon teas, and the hundred and one comforts of civil life which were so far removed from him at the moment. Must be ten now, you mutter, I suppose I'll get relieved presently. The door of a near dugout opened, and the ray of a candle shone out into the trench. One of his mates came out, his rifle in his hand, his waterproof ground-sheet over his shoulders. Is that you, Bub, he asked, taking a turn this century? All right, Bub answered, thought I wasn't coming out, eh? Are you fed up, he asked? A bit sick of it, said bowdy, I'm tired of looking across the parapet day and night. How do you like it? Rotten, said Spuddle, the weather is so damned rotten, everything's rotten. He got upon the fire-step, placed his rifle across the wall, and tied his waterproof across his shoulders. Oh, Flanagan is back, said Bub, as bowdy made his way towards the dugout. Is this come with a fresh draft of men? Who, Flanagan, where is he? bowdy asked, in one mouthful. He's in the dugout, said Bub. Bowdy rushed in, almost trampling on the face of a man who was asleep near the door. Yes, Flanagan was there, handsome Flanagan, the gallant youngster with a college education. He was an Irish boy and belonged to the section at St. Albans in the old days. He was a fine-looking youth of medium height with heavy dark hair and intelligent forehead, impassioned nostrils and an air of aloofness, which became him well. He had a frank and open expression, pensive gray eyes and high cheekbones. He came from the west of Ireland and had studied for the priesthood. But feeling that this was not his vocation, he entered the civil service. His people belonged to an old Irish family full of pride and poverty. Flanagan, though well educated, was a bit of a rake and loved the bottle. When excited he spoke with a delicious brogue and paid little heed to his grammar. But he was an omnivorous reader and carried a number of books about with him in his avarice act. Montaigne was a great favorite of his. He had gone home badly wounded seven months earlier and his mates never expected to see him out in France again. He was now sitting in a corner of the dugout, his handsome face radiant with joy and eagerness, portraying a certain boyish innocence which in no way detracted from the dignity of his features. You've come back again, Flan, Boudie said, and gripped him by the hand. Yes, I'm back again, he answered. Glad to be with us, Boudie queried it. Glad to leave London and come out here. Of course I am, he answered, handing Benner's a cigarette. The confession staggered Benner's, but in a way he was not surprised. Flanagan was a youngster who took eagerly to the life of war, its romance and roving. He wanted to attempt everything. Nothing was too big for him. With him it was no sooner see than try, and his store of enthusiasm was so unbounded that he generally seceded in most projects. But to come back again when his wound must surely have been a permanent, blighty one. Why have you come back, Boudie asked? Tell me all about it while I rouse the brazier and make a mess tin of tea. A mess tin of tea, he exclaimed, as Boudie bent over the brazier. God, it's good to hear that, old man. The cups are so small at home. Little things, but a mess tin full. Heavens, things are done on such a big scale in the trenches. One gets long hours of fighting, of working, of watching. Everything is taken in big mouthfuls here. There's nothing petty in the job. But at home, the soft beds. But I could not sleep. The little tea cups, but I had no appetite. The politeness, the swipe, the fine dresses. But the whole thing made me ill. We'd been looking on the gods here, and I went back to live with ordinary mortals. I couldn't stick it. You're a big fool, Flan, said Beners, as he fanned the brazier with a week old copy of an English paper. I would like to get home. I'd be in no hurry. You think so, said Flanigan, but you'd soon change your mind. I spent two months in hospital. Then I was sent to a convalescent camp. But my shoulder wouldn't mend, you know. I got it in the shoulder. I couldn't raise my arm. Something was dislocated. But that didn't matter. The convalescent camp was a damn nice place, near Brighton and beside the sea. There was an old sergeant major, a rumicky old fellow who talked through his nose. But a good fellow all the same. We called him Knickknock. He had no end of trouble with us, the old sweats, and he was always on the lookout for me. Got my name into his head somehow, and maybe I was not easy going enough for a rumicky old man. He must have been about sixty-five. We slept in huts. Knickknock would come to the door of the hut in the early morning. Are you all in bed yet? he would shout. Flanigan gave an imitation of a man speaking through his nose. Are you never going to get up? Where's Flanigan? Close the door, Knickknock. Someone would say. It's too blurry cold. Close the door, will you? I'll not close the door, the old man would answer. I'll get every man of you up out of bed before I leave here. They're up in all the hunts bar this in. I'll close the door, one would say, rising up in bed and lighting a cigarette. I'll not close the door, the sergeant would answer. What I want to know is this. Where's Flanigan? Dead one would say. Gassed in the knees. He's hanging on the wires from another. His bed wasn't slept on last night from Knickknock. When I see him, it'll be for it. And you'll be for it if you're not out of kip when I get back here in ten minutes from now. Mind that. Close the door, Knickknock. The hut would shout as the sergeant turned to go. I'll not shut the door. Leaving it like that and it so cold all would expostulate. Please shut the door. I'll not shut the door from Knickknock. One would think that the whole damn caboose is out on a Sunday school treat. Then the old man would go out, closing the door behind him. Time for me to appear, then. I would come out from under the table where I had hidden. I'd been out all night and just got into the hut before Knickknock. Was Knickknock ever out here? asked Boudie. Sixty-five in Rumicke. What could he do? said Flanigan. But he felt it, once he said to us, You know, boys, I feel out of place here. You fellas have been out and fighting and here you come here home. I'm bossing you. It's not fair. Ah, but another time he gave us a lecture and this is how it began. Boys, there's has been great changes in the army of late years. When I joined it, it wasn't as good as it is now, but after I came things improved and at the present day, a man cannot do better than roll up and become a soldier. Damn Knickknock, said Boudie Beners. Tell me something about yourself. What did you do after you left the convalescent camp? Well, I went off on leave from the convalescent camp, lost my pass and forgot when I had to return. I came back seven days late. Things took a turn. Knickknock reported me and I was taken before a medical board. The board had to determine whether I was in a fit state to survive seven days in jankers or not. Three or four old and wise men pummeled me, sounded me and did a lot of other things. Finally they discharged me from the army. God, I could jump over the moon with joy. I bought a pair of civvies, brown tweeds, patent leather shoes and a nice white collar. Dainty little tie, a velour's hat. I was quite swell. Some of my friends live in London. I stopped in with them. They were going to help me, get me a bond-proof job with good pay and lazy hours. I had been a bit of a rake before the war, but they did not mind that. A boy must have his fling. I had proved myself a man when the country called. You know the things they would say, stock phrases that were worthy of an auctioneer. I liked it for a little, Bowdy, but then the small teacups, the small talk, the little tit bits of scandal. Flanagan got to his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at Bowdy. I used to lie awake at night. The beds were so damn soft and uncomfortable. Think of the night spent out in the trenches, sitting in a snug dugout with the rain pattering on the roof or through it. Flanagan went on, fixing his gaze at the candle. Again, my thoughts would run on the long night marches up the road with the moonlight on the cobbles and the big poplars standing upright like pompous sergeant majors, away up to the starshells. The big guns in the trenches, I thought of these things night after night and I began to feel afraid. I knew that it was coming. I knew that I would leave England and come out to France again. I felt stifled at home. Everything was so small and little. God, the tea is beginning to bubble already. Do you remember old man that night when we lay in the orchard waiting to go up to the trenches to attack? He suddenly asked, thrusting his face almost into bowties. Do you mind the buses crowded with soldiers carrying rifles at all angles, going by on the road? The starshells flaring up in the sky and the bayonets glittering. The buses going, going like hell in the stars above shining through the apple trees. The trees were in blossom then, if you mind. Don't you remember, he asked? I shall never forget it, bowty answered. In the raids, he questioned, in a slow voice, crawling out through the long grasses with the poppies flicking you in the face, your nerves tense, not knowing what the next moment will bring. I thought of these things day after day and in the end I succumbed to the old lore. It was a difficult job getting back again. There was I, dismissed from the army and no more good as a fighter, my shoulder stiffened sore, my discharge paper showing that I was medically unfit, in effect a thorough washout. But something had to be done. It was then that I met old Knickknock again. He was discharged too, time expired. I met him, I grieved to stay in a pub. I stood him a drink and told him my predicament. He thought for a moment, then he said, Do not come back from the back of beyond, the sailor. Go up to the recruiting station and call yourself Bill Jackson and get taken on again. Don't mention a word about your shoulder. And maybe the MO won't notice it. God, I'd go with you myself, Flanagan, if it wasn't for these damn romatics. I tried the dodge, got taken on as Bill Jackson, who was at one time AB before the mast, and now Flanagan is dead to the British army henceforth, evermore. The tea is about ready, Bill Jackson, bowed, he said, as his mate sat down on the floor between the legs of a man who was sound asleep and breathing heavily. If you care to wait a little, I'll fry a rasher or bacon. Rations are pretty plump tonight. And is there any rum going, Flanagan asked, spring to his feet again. He was too excited to remain still. How strange that I'd forgotten to ask about the rum rations until now, he muttered. I suppose there'll be a tot after a little. It's within the bounds of possibility, bowed he remarked, as he put two rashes of bacon in the mast-tinned lid and placed the lid on the brasher. But we'll see to that later. Necessities before luxuries out here, Bill Jackson, he added. The bacon was ready, and they sat down. Flanagan and bowed he, and commenced to eat. Meals have no season in the trenches, but they are always welcome. God, it's good to be back here, said Flanagan. I've never been so happy in all my life. I hope the war won't end until this happiness has worn out. He was sincere in his expressions, and his mood almost became bowed before the meal was at an end. They lay back when they had eaten and lit cigarettes. The smoke wreathed upward to the roof, where the mice were scurrying amidst the rafters under the sandbags. The soldiers were still asleep on the floor. Their bodies curled up in queer attitudes. They sleep sound, said Flanagan. Who is that snoring? Is it old Snogger? Snogger it is, said Boudie. I thought so, said Flanagan. I knew his snore. I couldn't sleep like that at home. I'm very glad to be out here again. It's a great life, and I like it more than ever before. I suppose I'll tire of it again after a while. The novelty will wear out in due time. I've no doubt. By the way, have you Fitzgerald with you yet? He asked. He's here, Boudie made answer. He's in love with a French girl named Fifi. He's very fond of her. It's in love, as he said Flanagan. I mined him at St. Albans. He was in love so often. But none would take him seriously, he said. Why I don't know. Boud the sentry came to the door. Who's next on, he yelled. Sleeping there like a hog she was. Get up out. Leave him alone, said Flanagan, alluding to the soldier whom Boud was endeavoring to rouse up. I'll do his turn. Well, blimey, that's a strange caperset, Bud, as Flanagan disappeared through the door. One would think he was in love with this year, Kabush. I know one old squatter that ain't. That's this year, kid. Well, anyhow. I'm going to have a kid. Bub and Boudie lay down together and dropped off to sleep, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof. While outside on the firestep, Flanagan was standing on guard, humming an old Irish tune. His heart filled with the joy of a wanderer who has returned to his kind. End of Chapter 8. Back to his own. Chapter 9 of the Brown Brethren. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Brown Brethren by Patrick McGill. Chapter 9. Trench Fever. Now, out in the trenches, you'll find to your cost that the slower you shuffle, the sooner you're lost. There are actions done better, the quicker they're done, like getting your actions or bombing a hunt, or dodging a pipsqueak or catching a flea, the quicker you do them, the better they be. From Trench Wisdom. The Irish were back in the trenches again. It was night, the ground was covered with snow, and Spudhol, who did not feel well, was glad of an hour's rest and a dugout. The dugout belonged at one time to the Germans. It was a spacious apartment stretching out into unfathomable corners. The dry floor was level as a board, and all around the walls snugly... The dry floor was level as a board, and all around the walls snug little crannies were scraped out in the clay. Here were stored all manners of... Here were stored all manner of odds and ends, bully beef tins, floves, biscuits, coils of barbed wire, hand grenades, vandaliers, water jars, tins of jam, candles, and firewood. A brazier burned on the floor, the smoke curled upward, and was sucked out through a hole in the roof, as though a chimney. A dozen men sat around the fire, jackets steaming, and the brass buckles of their equipment shining like gold. The blaze, burning high, lit up the steady eyes and ruddyed the strong features of the men. Spudhol half asleep, lent forward over his knees, his arms folded, his shoulders humped up, and his helmet well down over his face. Boudie Benners was writing a letter. His no-paper spread out on Bub's back. His knees crossed. A wrinkled man of forty-eight named Bill Hurd was telling how his own son had joined the army at the outbreak of war. Hurd was an Irishman and had worked as a carpenter on a biggest state in Devon, and his son John had a job in his father's workshop. It was two days after war was declared, Bill was saying, and I was down in the kitchen, waiting till it was time to go out till my job. I was always an early riser. Upstairs I heard John singing like a thrush. What's wrong with him, I says, till myself her, though he was a good, willing cub, he was not an early riser. When he came down, I says to him, What's up with you this morning? I says, I'm going to jine up. He says, most took my breath away, but you're not only eighteen come the end of next week, I says to him. But I can be nineteen at a pinch, he answers, and what was to be said about that. I ups and shakes him by the hand. You're a man, that's what you are, I says to him. And where are you going to join up? I ask him, in the town, he says, meaning the town nearest where there was a recruiting station. Then I'll go along with you, and see that you're right fitted up, I says to him. I must go out and do an hour's work, he then says, when I finish that, I'll be ready to go. Bright new boy says, for I knew that he wanted to go out and tell the other men what he was going to do. So he goes to the recruiting station and the corporal there runs a tape over John. He'll do, he said, he'll make a fine soldier. So he went out, me and him, and I goes with him to the nearest tobacco shop. Now think of what you're going to do, I says to him, it's not an easy job, the job of a soldier. Now think, I said, think me boy. He looked at me straight in the face and said, as if he was offended, you don't think I've done wrong to you. Begore there and then I just and there were a lot of people looking at us. I just caught him by the hand and squeezed it. You're a man, I says, and I'll get you a pipe and tobacco. And so I did and would you missed out me when I said that he was a handy put in a match to pipe as I was myself, but it's not easy to understand young cubs. He was growing up as snogger who came into the dugout at that moment. Long after that, says Billy, there was a young fellow on the state, the son of me Mistress, a fine hearty looking fellow, a rail good lump of a cove with laughy eyes and so handsome. He was a great friend of mine. Well, he was an officer in the regulars and he got hit in the eye out here, be a splinter of a shell and he was knocked stone blind. He comes home, goes into hospital and one was there for long enough but nothing could be done. All hope was lost, he would be blind for life and his mother, she took it as calm as anything. Billy, she used to say to me, somebody must suffer and it's all for the country when all is said and done. She was a brave woman, didn't wear a heart on her sleeve, I never saw her eyes wet, not until one day to his winter boy sent a wee fret work letter rack home from hospital as a present to his mother. He made it himself, blind as he was and it was very pretty. I was doing a bit of woodwork in the hall when it came in a parcel. The mother opened the parcel and saw what was inside and she began to cry as if she would never stop. After that, when anybody spoke of her boy she would burst out weeping. Well, I liked the boys, said Billy so I thought it was up to me to have revenge for him on the Germans and then he went to a clean shave and went to the recruitment office and signed on as a man of thirty-nine. He should have had more sense but getting to his feet and disappearing into a corner. No doubt the boy who was not feeling well wanted to snatch in our sleep. Snogger looked at the men, six of you for ration fatigue he said, two for relief the men on guard, whose turn is it? I'm one, said Boudie, me as well, said Billy Heard. Then in get-outs at Snogger it's two minutes past time. Boudie and Billy got to their feet, buckled their equipment and went out to their posts. An hour later they came back. Boudie shook the snow from a sheepskin jacket and sat down on the ground beside the brazier. It's a very cold night outside, he said. Freeze the horns off a brass monkey at wood. Where's Spud wholly asked? What's wrong now? What do you want? asked a feeble voice. He ran out from the dark corner by the wall. He rose to his feet and buttoned his sheepskin jacket which had become loose. How are you feeling now, Spud, all asked Benners? Oh, I'm all right. End the pink, said Bud. Have your drop of water to spare. Boudie handed a water bottle to Spud. The youngster raised it to his lips and drank greedily. Cold water's not a drink for a night like this, said Boudie, if I make a mist tin of tea will you have some? Thank you, said Boud, handing the bottle back. I'm going to have another kip now, he added. Roused me up when it's my turn for century go. He lay back, closed his eyes, and felt very cold. At intervals he shivered, shaking from head to foot. Enumerable currents of icy air seem to have taken up their abode in the dugout. Living, crafty, currents as cruel as enemies which stole slyly down his back, penetrating between flesh and under clothing. They blew on the back of his neck. When he turned round, he encountered them on his face. They stole out from all corners and cessantly chilling him with their treacherous frozen breath. He fell asleep, woke up, and it seemed to him that a swarm of ants had got in his throat and that other ants, thousands of them, were crawling over his arms and legs. He got up, shook himself, his legs felt very weak, his head was spinning. He tottered over to the fire. Boudie, who was pouring a handful of tea into the boiling water, looked up. Good heavens, but oh, you were looking bad, he said. Feeling cold. Cold's not the word, Bob replied. I wouldn't be worse off and handcuffed to a ghost. What's the time? He asked. Ten to eleven, said Boudie, looking at his wristwatch. Just about my time for Century Ghost, said Bob, in a weak voice. I suppose I'm getting trench fever or something, he added. Boudie placed a spoonful of condensed milk in the tea, stirred it, and added sugar. This will warm me up, he said, filling the mess tin lid with tea and handing it to Bob. Then you can lie down again near the fire and I'll do your turn his Century. Spuddle had the lid half raised on his lips, his hands shook, the tea splashed out in little drops which fell on the brazier. Boudie, he said, in a slow voice. What is it? I've never failed up my work yet, said Spuddle. I'm not here in the trenches to shift my jobs on to other blokes. What's your feeling, queer, said Boudie? If I felt like that, I would go down and see the MO and get shoved into hospital. Would you, said Spuddle, placing the mess tin lid on the floor? I know better. What did I hear you say once? You'd never leave your trenches when the regiment was there unless you was carried out on a stretcher. That was only swank, said Boudie. You'd drink your tea spud hole and lie down. I'll put a couple of sandbags around you, and if you're not feeling better in the morning just run down and see the MO. Well, I'm damned if I go as away from the line, said Bob. Not until the battalion is with me. That's subtle. I went down, raised the mess tin, and drank the tea. Snogger came to the door. Next on sentry go, he called. I'm there, said Boudie. It's my turn, said Bob. Note you and the fatter, some of you be damned unlucky, said Snogger. Whoever's on's on. That's all. So get some elbow grease on and hurry out. Them that's on's a minute and are over their time already. Spud hole went out, crawled up on and relieved the sentry. Leaning both arms on the parapet, he looked over no man's land towards the German trenches. The levels in front, a shell scarred spread of ground set off in its ghastly array of barbed wire entanglements was covered with snow. Here nature had only one mood. A mood of sulky menace which overawed and subdued the tempers of the onlookers. The sky was coldly clear and a million stars showed in its broad expanse, but Bob's circle of horizon was very small. Objects quite near at hand stood out weirdly silhouetted with a blurred though definite outline. The trenches were wrapped in ghostly solitude. The brazier, a flare in the dugout which Bob had just left at no relieving tent to the blind helplessness of the night. The sick boy stood back from the parapet and clapped his hands together in an endeavor to warm himself. God, it's cold here, he muttered. I wish I was in the dugout having a kip. It would be so much better than standing out here, but I wouldn't have it not at any price. I wouldn't shove my job on to any bloke. Bowdy would do a sentry go for me, good old Bowdy, and so would old Flann if he weren't down at the dump. But why should they? I wouldn't mind letting them do it if it was cold. How are you getting on, spud? asked a voice from the trench, feeling the cold. The boy looked down at Captain Thorling. The captain and he were great friends. Cold said, spud, through chattering teeth. It's not warm air, is it, sir? I feel as cold as if I was handcuffed to a ghost. I hear that you're not feeling well, said the captain. I'm all right, sir, just a bit more. Well, you know that Bowdy will do your job for you if you're feeling queer, said Thorling. I know that, sir, but I'm all right, said Bob. Besides, I wouldn't rob a man of his sleep. Bob finished his hour, but when his next turn as sentry came round, he was unable to perform his duty. He looked helplessly at his mate. Bowdy said in a low apologetic voice. I've no guts for another hour to wash out. I will go down to the MO, not tomorrow morning, but now. If I stay here any longer, I'll have to be carried out. But didn't I stick it to the last Bowdy? Of course you did. I'm damned if I'd stick it so long. Clear out of it once, spuddles, said Billy Hurd. You're like a ghost, something like what a cat would take in on a wet day. You think I'm sick enough to leave her then, as Bob? I don't want any longer after I go that I was swinging the lead. If you stop here any longer, they'll say that you're staying here, hoping that you'll be so bad when you leave that you'll never be sent back again. Then I'm off out it, said Bob. Decision in his voice. I'll try and be back as soon as I can. He went outside and made his way to the dressing station. Don found him snug in a motor ambulance on his way to hospital. End of Chapter 9, Trench Fever. Chapter 10 of the Brown Brethren. This is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Brown Brethren by Patrick McGill. Chapter 10, Lost to the Wide There's a rum jar in the dugout and a parcel in the post. Fall all the dittle all the d. And I couldn't be much colder where I handcuffed to a ghost. Fall all the dittle all the d. There's a quartermaster sergeant and the dugouts is abode. Fall all the dittle all the d. And a shell is hit the mailbag and it scattered on the road. Fall all the dittle all the d. From the strafed mailbag. It was past eight o'clock of a January evening when the soldiers in Homsweet Home dugout sat down late to tea. The dugout was situated at the bottom of a chalk pit near Vimy Ridge and was occupied by officers, servants, company runners, signalers, and others who generally kept in close touch with battalion headquarters. The chalk pit was more or less immune from shellfire. For being narrow and deep, it was difficult for a shell to reach around with a ring of spacious dugouts circled over the top in 500 yards eastward ran the communication trench which wound its way discreetly up to the British front line. Lights gleamed in the dugouts and sounds of laughter and singing could be heard from Homsweet Home. It was a capacious shelter originally fashioned by the French and capable of holding 30 men. At the present moment it contained 15 British soldiers and gauged in the pleasant task of eating a substantial meal. Rations as well as the post had just come up from the railhead. Rum was issued and the parcels from home had been bulky. The meal was proceeding merrily. Some of the men were laughing and chatting, sitting on the ground. Their knees crossed and messed tins of steaming tea in their hands. Two or three were stripped and their wet clothes were hung in the brazier. All were so cool and happy that it was difficult to believe that the German shells were just dropping outside the door. Suddenly the waterproof sheet that covered the door was raised in a newcomer enter. He stood for a moment looking round. Then he approached an upended ammunition box which stood in the center of the dugout and sat down on it. Oh, it's all Fitzgerald who was endeavoring with the aid of a bayonet to draw the cork from a rum jar. How are things going on up at Vimy, he asked. Not so bad, Fitzgerald answered. There's plenty of shells fly across and now and again we get a mini saucy devil. We do get more than is good for our health. Vimy is not the most pleasant place on our front. I've helped to take a prisoner down. A prisoner flanigan exclaimed handing Fitzgerald a drop of rum in a mess tin. A German? Yes, a youngster, Fitzgerald answered, lifting the rum reverently to his lips and rolling it round in his mouth. He was caught on a listening patrol, wounded and unconscious. I've got to wait here until he recovers. Hear what he has to say and report back to Captain Thorley with any information. You know we fear a mind going up at the sap for all day and night we can hear tapping under the ground. Fitzgerald held out his mess tin again and received another tot of rum. Then he lit a cigarette. There's nothing like a drop of rum, he remarked. It's health to the navel and marrow to the bones as the scripture has it. The hut laughed. What about a song Fitz, flanigan asked, an old Irish one. A come-or-you. No fleurities drink, said of inquiry. The rum had put him in a gay good humor. Spitted out flanigan yelled. Fitzgerald commenced the song. My name it is now the truth for to tell. I live near Coot Hill, which I'll never deny. I had to find Drake the truth for to spake, which my grandmother left me before she did die. He was wholesome and sound and could weigh forty pound. The wide world round I would roam for his sake, bed luck to the robber be he drunk or sober, who murdered no fleurities beautiful Drake. May his temples wear horns and all his toes corns. May he always be fed on lob course and fish oil. May he near go to bed till the moment he's dead. May his cow never milk, may his kettle never boil. That's the supreme curse, I think Fitzgerald remarked, smiling lazily. May his kettle never boil. Think of that in Ireland where the teapots as greedy as the grave. Is at the end of the song a soldier asked from the corner. Only the first three verses Fitzgerald replied. There are forty verses in the song, but I forget the rest. My memory he exclaimed, rising to his feet. Good God, I forget everything. My memory is my curse. Who's got a cigarette to spare? At that moment an orderly came to the door and shouted out, Decompney Runner. I'm Decompney Runner, Fitzgerald remarked. Report to headquarters immediately, said the orderly. Also rifleman Flanagan to report. Two men must take the message. I'm there, said Fitzgerald, turning to Flanagan and asking can I have another cigarette before we go? He got another cigarette, placed it in his cap and accompanied by Flanagan, went out into the open and across to headquarters dugout. The adjutant was inside sitting at a table, a cup of tea and a box of cigarettes in front of him. He knew Fitzgerald very well, having met him in civil life. I want you to go to the ridge as quickly as you know how, said the adjutant, fixing his eyes on the runner. The young German has regained consciousness and he tells us that the enemy are going to blow up three minds under our front tomorrow morning at six. The men must withdraw to the second trench until further orders. I've tried to phone up but can get no answer to my calls. The wire must be broken. Hand the message over to Captain Thorley or any other officer whom you may encounter. You do the same Flanagan and both report back here when you've done this. He handed a sealed envelope to Fitzgerald and the runner went out into the night. The final words of the adjutant were in his ears. Very important, remember, very important. Fitzgerald clamored up the side of the pit with difficulty. The chalk was frittering away and the man had very insecure purchase of his feet. Flanagan followed keeping a hundred yards to rear. At headquarters another runner was receiving a similar message. One would certainly deliver it safely. When Fitzgerald crossed the rim of the pit, you could see the lines of battle. The star shells flaring in the heavens and the lured flames of bursting explosives lighting up the darkness. In front of spinning where the trees were riven and shattered took on strange shapes. The lifeless ruined branches stretch outwards as it were and reproach and despair. The fallen trees laying on the ground like rotting corpses. War's earthquake had come to an end in the country. Dark, sepulchral chasms yawned in the ground and the whole earth seemed to have been gutted to its core. A little red brick cottage was smashed to smithereens. The machinery of a mill stood suspended over nothing. And shapeless walls, jagged and lacerated, quivered in air ready to fall at the first gust of wind. Where the pits were dug in the earth, shapeless walls. And beside one of these heaps lay a battery of field guns jumbled in inextricable confusion. The rusty steel muzzles of the guns looked grotesque and distorted. The ruined dugout in which the gunners once lived breathed tragedy from every broken beam and torn sandbag. Dead men lay all over the place, shamelessly exposed in the most unlikely situations. On the field of war death was denied its privileged privacy. Fitzgerald entered the communication trench and hurried along, panting as he ran. Two shells swooped over his head, bursting with a vicious clatter on the field behind him. Others followed, powning at the parapet like drunken gods. He could hear the splinters hitting the paredos with a dull thud to the accompaniment of a thousand rifle bullets which tore at the suffering sandbags. Fitzgerald passed through one trench crossing, then another. I'll do it in five minutes now, he said, changing his rifle from one shoulder to the other. I hope the mine doesn't go up before I get there. Five minutes, he bothered. I'll be there in five minutes. But Fitzgerald miscalculated. At the end of five minutes he found himself in a deserted trench all alone and then decided that it was time to turn back. Probably he had taken the wrong trench at the last crossing. He went back for a short distance and came to a junction. Several trenches crossed at this point, but the locality seemed new to him. He had not been there before. Well, I'm damned, he said, and then added, I'm lost as well. He realized the danger of his plight and felt uncomfortable. Stories were often told over braziers in the dim trench traverse, and many of these stories spoke of men who won a stray in the trenches and never returned. Sometimes the lost soldiers found themselves in the enemy's lines, and on other occasions they wandered up to their home parapets to fall the victim to a rifle of a nervous sentry. Fitzgerald had heard many of these stories, and he recollected them now. Much fighting had recently taken place on Vimy Ridge, and the English and German forces crisscrossed in several localities. In some places both parties occupied the same trenches. Fitzgerald alone in the stray had no definite idea of his position. He only knew that he was lost at the cross trenches and did not know which trench led to safety. Perhaps he had passed beyond the British front. He peered over the top. The night was quiet. Scarcely a rifle spoke, though these star shells were ablaze in the heavens and dropping petals of flame to the dark earth. Right in front of Fitzgerald was a ghastly heap jumbled and confused, a heap of dead men, and round this heap lay other dead things, rejected from the more composite and bulky distortion of war. The solitary figures lay, some face downwards, arms spread out, others curl up like sleeping dogs. Well, where am I, as Fitzgerald? Whose star shell is that? Ours or theirs? Where's our line? He looked at a dead thing near him and shuddered. Then shouldering his rifle he made his way up the trench on his right. This is all right, he muttered, passing a projecting beam of a fallen dugout. I passed this a minute ago, but not this. He detached himself awkwardly from the heap of limp bodies into which he had fallen and hurriedly retraced his steps to the junction where the dark trenches opened up to unknown mysteries. Fitzgerald lent warily against the wall and puzzled over many things. If I go over the top what happens, he asked himself. Run into a German patrol maybe or into one of our own covering parties and they'll shoot me on site. If I go along a trench I'll probably get into the German lines. That won't do either. I'm like a rat in a trap but I must get out of it. Yes, I must get out of it. But how? The question caused a queer sensation to run down the innermost parts of his body and the sensation was one of fear. He mumbled many things to himself in a thick, quick undertone. Then without realizing the risk he ran Fitzgerald crawled over the parapet and went out into the open taking his rifle with him. It was a man lying face downwards on the ground that attracted his attention first. He could have sworn that the man moved and brought a rifle to bear upon him. Fitzgerald stood upright and fired at the man twice only to find that he was riddling a corpse with bullets. He flung himself flat to avoid the machine gun that open fired and waited till it ceased its play. A galaxy of starshoes lit up the heavens in a big shell of another pattern whirl across the open and burst with a dizzy clatter. In the distance could be heard the transports of war clattering along the roads, the clank of rails unleaded at some far-off railway siding. And gleaming luridly against the darkness could be seen the flames of a building on fire some dozen miles away. Near Fitzgerald lay a dead man, further off another, looking like an empty sack flung on the ground. The maximum fire stammered into silence and the youth got to his feet, looked round and listened with strained ears. Somewhere near he could hear the sound of hammers and the creaking of shovels and he concluded that a work party was busy at its toil. It was impossible to determine to what side the party belonged. Might be German. The lines of trenches were very confused and salience projected out like duck spills in places and at other points they receded some 500 yards from the opposite front. No man was ever more solitary than poor mud-stained rifleman Fitzgerald at that moment. And the night was full of mysterious whispers, sounds, creakings, and rustlings. Spirits seemed to lurk on the vacant face of the earth and uncanny spirits hovered over the world. In the near distance all objects took on strange undefined shapes while in keeping with the grotesque fantasy of war. Suddenly Fitzgerald fancy that he'd heard somewhere near him the sharp snap of a rifle bolt. He turned round and scurried back to the trench which he had just left. It seemed quite a distance to traverse and he slipped over the parapet and flopped down into the mud. But not a soul was to be seen. The trench was deserted. Neither was it the trench which he had left. Here the slush reached his hips. Well, not damned, he said, and linked against the parapet. What am I going to do? I'm going to stick here, stick well in. Shadow and silence brooded over the place. He had descended into the stagnation of the tomb. The clammy slush ran down his top boots and settled around his heels. He advanced one step and another, touching both walls of the alley with stretched hands. He looked up and saw that the walls were very steep. It was impossible to climb up. The clay was too soft. It came away in the hands and his feet were so weighty. Besides now he was sticking. Every time he moved the mud gripped him with greater vehemence. It seemed as if his feet were slipping down the throat of a voracious monster which was endeavoring to swallow him. The floor of the trench was a treacherous quicksand as greedy as the grave. For a moment Fitzgerald fought madly against the embrace of this soft, elusive terror. He gripped at the walls. The mud came away in his hands. He pulled one foot out, the other sank deeper. To move was ghastly. To remain still was deadly. I must move, he muttered. If I don't I'll die. If I make a struggle my fate will rest on the knees of the gods and they may die. The mud was reaching his waist. To pull out one leg he had to reach forward until his face touched the mucky floor, raise his hind foot clear, bring it round with a circular motion and place it down in the slush again. The same operation had to be performed at each remove. Once he placed his hands in the muck and tried to crawl but the effort was futile. His hands sunk into the shoulder and the earth rose wanting to clutch him. Fitzgerald came to a halt and looked hopelessly round. Nothing was to be seen but the darkness. The night was a cavern in which he had got lost. He gripped at the wall of the trench with furious fingers and part of the parapet came away in his hands almost burying him. It's no good. I'm going to peg out here, he said as he tried to shake himself clear. If I only had a head in my head I'd look for a spot to die. I would select a better spot than this anyway if I had a choice. But they've stopped sending up star shells now and I should have a parcel by the post tonight he muttered and another drop of rum will be going round now I think. But is that all I have to think about? He shouted at the top of his voice but there was no reply. He yelled again and then became silent. What's the good of it in a whisper? I don't know where I am. Maybe I'm near the German trenches. If they find me here what will they do? Tread me in probably. In the mind what about it? I still got the message in my pocket. I wish this had happened after I delivered the thing. But I'll go on a bit. I'll get to somewhere. He moved forward. The first step was difficult. The next was easier. The subsoil had lost its bird lime acidity and the slush was not as dense. A few steps further and Fitzgerald breathed. He was going up an incline. Getting out of it his head was almost parallel with the rim of the trench. He burst into song. Four stick standards, four lily wanders, a hooker and a crooker and a swing about three sheep, shara hand, owned by Amon Garahan, a ribag and a thonag, and a coat of brannag, broknag. The song suddenly stopped. A heavy shell swept over his head and burst very near. Another followed and another. And Fitzgerald noticed that he had reached a junction where a number of trenches crisscrossed. Another Dan labyrinth he muttered. Out you get. On to the top, rifleman Fitzgerald. He ordered. Apostrophizing himself. And out he did get. It was now he discovered that his rifle had vanished. Oh, I suppose it's in the mud he muttered. Lucky I'm not. A trench showed some distance away he made for it, slipped over the parapet and landed on something soft which moved. God almighty, what the are you up to? Said a soldier rising from the mud. They're shelling us, Fitzgerald. You better rouse up. What trenches this? The supports of the men were waiting for a mine to go off or something. The rest of the men were standing at their posts, ready. The enemy had become nasty and were using an exceptionally heavy shell on the sector. But as yet it was bursting wide. A 9.2 somebody remarked to Fitzgerald adding in God, it don't send the dirt flying about. They'll attack maybe. Any officers near here, Spudhol, Fitzgerald answered for he recognized the voice of his comrade Bub. Officers said Spudhol. Yes, Captain Morley was about here a minute ago. Eat gore, blimey, there's the shell again. Fitzgerald listened and heard her coming, crooning out the unknown. It was the big shell, gathering volume it approached in an evitable terror, a messenger of death. There was a hurried stampede to a near dugout and Fitzgerald found himself in the crush and carried forward into the dark recess of a deep shelter. In the next few moments he was conscious of many things. Of a sudden fall to the soft muddy floor. Of a choking sensation in his throat. A monstrously futile effort to drag himself clear of the man who fell on top of him. Of nervous laughter and fierce implications. Then he sank into forgetfulness. The shell had blown the dugout in on its occupants. End of chapter 10. Chapter 11. A Scrap We're well in the doings. No more to be said. The officer who wound it. The sergeant is dead. There's something don't happen in that very soon. The sergeant is dead. The sergeant is dead. The sergeant is dead. The sergeant is dead. The sergeant is dead. The sergeant is dead. No more to be said. No more to be said. No more to be said. It's all that happened and that very soon will not have a man in the blurry platoon. Pluriiay platoon. Poor old platoon. Always it's for it, this blurry platoon. From a soldier's song, it was not yet dawn and the rain blazing starshell caught them. The man on watch shook themselves, rubbed their eyes with clay encrusted fingers, and hum monotonous tunes. Always very quiet. The dawn was oppressive. The dark, mysterious levels had an ominous threat in their incomprehensible silence. The support trench into which the soldiers had come was a great mysterious alley filled with specters as impalpable as air. The dawn came in perceptibly. Men stood down and spoke of breakfast. But there was no fire. Loaves and biscuits were sodden with rain. Spuddle tried to open a tin of bully beef with his clasp knife, cut his finger, and swore dreadfully. His mates stared at him and nodded their heads, but did not speak. Captain Thorley came along the trench speaking to men on century go. Cut your finger, Spuddle, he asked, when he came into the bay in which Bowdy and Bub were stationed. The captain knew every man by nickname. Cut it, said Bub. Of course I've cut it, sir. My fingers are so damn cold. What about this ear mine, sir? It may go up now at any moment, said Captain Thorley. You've all got to keep a good look out. When it goes up, every man crosses at the top and man the crater, just as you did on Christmas morning. Bowdy will go with us this time. On the last occasion he was away, making love to some dear French girl. Bowdy blushed. Poor old Fitz has gone west, said Bub. He's under the ground with a dozen tons of muck on top of him. There are five or six of our boys buried with him, around the corner in the next bay. I was looking at the dugout that fell in, said Bowdy. They're buried deep enough anyhow. It's no good digging them out. We've no time for that, said Thorley. It's a long day's work for a big squad if it's ever attempted. Of course there's not a soul alive. Fitzgerald was coming with a message too, but it's all right. Flanagan brought the message in. Did you see a bay net sticking up through the roof, as Bub? The dugout fell down around it, and there it's sticking up as if it wanted to stab somebody. At that moment the earth trembled like a wind-shaken leaf. The men rushed to the parapetain, looked over, out in front a great lump rose on the level like a whale breaking up from the sea, and a livid flash flipped the world. The soldiers sank into cover, mute, pale, hesitating. The roar of an earthquake filled their ears, and a million flying fragments filled the sky. An almost incoherent order passed along the trench, and on the right men clamored over the sandbanks into the open field. They had to take possession of the mine-criter. Snogger, Bowdy, Benners, and Bub were across, and in the next minute they were conscious of many things. Bub slipped twice in getting over the top, and panted wearily as he rushed towards the spot where the earth was lumped up black and raw. Other men rushed along at a side shouting and yelling. Rifles were discharged wildly at no particular objective, and a group of valuable guns chorished in dizzy harmony. The men clamored down the steep sides of the newly formed valley, a hundred feet deep or more, and up the crest again where it looked over the enemy's trenches. The Germans were already advancing in extended order several hundred strong. The advance was done at the double through the lurid flashes of curtain fire, which the English guns had opened. The Germans were falling, and the sight steadied the men somewhat, and they trained their rifles with precision and a certain amount of calmness on the newcomers. The English guns were now speaking with furious vehemence and the shrapnel hissed at the gray forms, which were still rising over the rim of the trench in front. Bub and Benners lay down with their mates on the slope of the parapet, and fired, bit wildly perhaps, but it was impossible to miss. The machine gun, already in position, swayed its snout from side to side, snapped viciously and extracted its toll from the attackers. They came forward, rushing wildly, their bayonets in air, their legs clumsily cutting off the distance between their trench and the crater. Many in the first line of attackers were falling, and several were crawling back to their own lines on their bellies. Our bombers stood waiting, fingering their bombs nervously. The stench of explosives was suffocating. Several who were overcome with the gases dropped to the ground and rolled down the slope into the bottom of the pit. Bill Hurd stood up on the verge of the crater, where the wet, glistening machine gun peeped forth. Steady boys, steady, he cried, take careful land, don't waste a round, make every bullet tell, we'll beat them off, we'll beat them back, back, well back, Begor will show them. He looked enormous standing there, shouting vehemently and waving his arms. Beat them back, he yelled, repeating the same remark over and over again. His rifle lay against the rim of the crater, the bayonet rusty and grim, peered over the top as if in waiting. Take good aim, he shouted, running along the rim of the crater. Be sure of your man, don't get flurried, we'll bait them back easily. Keep cool and don't get flurried, if you do you'll be damned unlucky, don't get excited, he shouted, and if you do it won't be no good. He held his peace then, and Bob looked round to see where he had sought cover. He was lying on his face, and a very tiny red scar showed on his forehead. Although the enemy advanced at the devil, the time dragged slowly for the men on the parapet. They watched an agonized suspense for closer combat. Somehow the firing seemed to have very little effect on the attackers. Hundreds fell and hundreds took the place of the fallen. The rim of the fulmin's parapet was like the lip of a waterfall. The men came across in waves, got dashed to pieces, and waves followed only to meet with a similar fate. The success of lines of men were endless, eternal as a running brook. The German first line drew nearer. The English could almost see the expressions of the men's faces. Felt that the soul of the attacker was not in their work. It was impossible to miss them now. The attacking lines withered like waves on a beach. One man who came in front, flung down his rifle, raced toward the craters with his hands in the air, and jumped in on top of Bill Hurd's bayonet, a ludicrous fixture. Pull it out, he yelled in agony, speaking in good English. Pull it out, for God's sake. But there was no time to spare at that moment. The English were fighting to save their own skins. The German rolled down to the bottom of the crater with the bayonet on which he had sat still, stuck in his body. The second and third wave of attack followed, but the concentrated fire of the defenders cut great gaps in the attacker's lines, which became merged with the other. When halfway across, the men had no heart for further advancement. They drew themselves to earth and dug holes in the ground for safety. The English artillery fire prevented them from going back. The rifles would not allow them to come forward. They were caught between two fires. Now and again, an entrenching tool could be seen rising in the air, and it was fired at, when a figure in grey moved, a questing bullet reminded it forcibly of the indiscretion. At times one would rise and walk about in an unconcerned and indifferent manner, probably had gone insane, or perhaps the pain of a wound put death out of reckoning. The end was, in all cases, the same. The bullet found the man, and the ghastly fury of destruction held its way. On the right they reached the wires, and the boys went out and met them. There the bayonet was at work. They came up in big droves, and some fumbled through. The defenders rushed out and gave fight. An excited machine gunner played for a minute on the crush of friend Anfo. The Germans lost heart, retreated, and were followed with bayonet, bludgeon and bomb, tripping on the wires and stepping in. Flesh and blood they went back, tramping undead and wounded. The latter grown piteously and shrieked for mercy. The retreat became general, the front wave of attackers receded. Those which followed stood still undecided. Here and there isolated parties made great fight, holding out until the last man fell. Some of the Irish followed them across. A large party of prisoners were surrounded near the hostile trench. The German gunners had shortened their range and were now shelling the ground between the lines. Fighting was even more severe on the right. There was a confused and struggling mass reeled round the wires in a last wild effort, and the German artillery dealt death impartially to friend Anfo alike. On all sides the wounded covered the field, lying in huddled heaps and rose sangly and in pairs. In front of the mine a German moved on his stomach, then rose to his feet and flung a bomb at a party which went out to suckle the wounded. A youngster, a boy newly out, named Ryan, rushed forward with his rifle, fired and missed. Still advancing, he slid around into the breach of his weapon, shoved the rifle close to the German's forehead and pulled the trigger. The upper part of the man's head was blown off. All day long the men stopped in the crater, always on the alert, and in front of them, along line of earth gradually, took shape on the field, which showed that the enemy worked hard digging himself in. Towards dusk the dark line took on a whitish color. The diggers had reached the chalk and were well under cover. When darkness fell the trench was raided and the occupants taken prisoner. Then greys were dug and the dead were buried. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Brown Brethren This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Brown Brethren by Patrick McGill Chapter 12 The Days Work It's Bloomin' Weld still the same. Everone always the same, right in the thick of it, not feeling sick of it. No, but it's always the same. The same. I like the old business, not Af, son of the empire, not Af. Laguerre never finny, it's wisping in many, and always the usual straf, straf, straf. Forever and ever the same, Bloomin' Weld always the same. If the guns for a change would lengthen their range, but nah, they'd just straff us the same. From Trench Doggerall The winter was over, the birds were singing again on the barbed wire entanglements. The green grasses peeped out between the cobbles of the deserted village streets, and the flowers showed in the open spaces between the lines. The trenches were becoming dry, the parapets no longer crumbled down. It was possible to climb over the parados at night without flinging half the structure into the muddy alleys where the soldiers kept eternal watch on the lines and crossed the way. Sheepskin jackets were handed in, top boots were worn no more, a man could sleep at ease in a dugout now, for the roofs no longer weighted by the rain had ceased falling in on the hapless sweepers. The tottering walls gathered strength, tottering spirits were braced up, men saw the sun, and were pleased the winter was over. For one who has not experienced them it is difficult to realize the hardships of the front line between the months of October and April. The trenches are deep ditches filled with mud and water that reach the waste. Now and again the heavy top boots are useless protection against wet, the water rises over the tops of the boots and runs down the legs of the men. The boots stick in the mud and often the men have to climb out of them, clamor from cells into a quagmire. In the days following the first trench winter when the earth got dry, soldiers who had died in their top boots were dug from the floors of the trenches, worry with their efforts to get free from the deadly embrace of the muddy quagmire. They fell asleep and succumbed to exposure, died in their graves, and in spring they were dug out and buried anew. The dugout is as treacherous as the trench, the shaky construction, the lodge of fear is always built in a hurry. Weak props hold a crazy roof in place, sandbags filled with earth serve the purpose of tiles. In dry weather a dugout serves its purpose well, but in the rainy weather the sandbags become saturated finally weighing the rafters and props down to earth. Time and again the weary sleepers never awake, their shelter becomes their grave. The trenches in the summer nights have a charm peculiarly their own when the star shells ride in the heavens and the air is full of the languorous scent of sleeping flowers. If the guns of war are silent there is a genial atmosphere pervading the whole place and then go about the work in a light hearted manner. One can smell tea brewing in the sheltered bay where a brazier glows causally in the lee of the travers. The game of cards is in progress in a dugout and the youth may be seen writing a letter by the light of a timid candle stuck on the wall. At that moment one does not feel far removed from home. But what a contrast in the cheerless winter all the cozy comfort is a thing of the past. Men plow through muck and mire dragging their feet and legs through water and mud where sleep in the open shivering with cold. The fingers are chilled to the bone while feeling has gone away from the feet. For all one knows the feet may have gone. No fires are lit there is no wood nothing that will burn. Long night marches have lost all their romance. Clothes are seldom dry. They cling to the body like the rags of a drowned man scourging and scaling the flesh. The cold rain stings the flesh. The snow freezes the fingers. Marching is difficult. The roads are thick with mud and all roads lead to the firing line the line of red agony of desolation. The soldier is a mute impotent figure of blind pawn in the game of war. The billets are cold and cheerless. The broken roof which allowed the winds of night to play around the sleepers in the hot summer weather now lets in the cold and wet. Sleep is hardly a rest. It is a moment of forgetfulness similar to the solace which a sick man finds in a drug. Spring was well on its way now. The boys in the trenches were happy again. Bub and Flanigan were up to any sort of mischief or deed of daring. The persistent sniper who kept potting at their bay annoyed them however. Bub back from hospital and full of vitality vowed that it was up to him to put the sniper out of action. I'm going up on this ear cabouche at the rear, said Bub, pointing to the slag heap behind the British front line. I'll maybe get a sight on the bush. I'm with you in the game, said Flanigan. Both men went out in the early dawn and took their places close to the crest of the mammoth slag heap. Noon found them, still their line prone on the surface of the coal mine's off-scour. Their heads close to the rim of the heat, their eyes fixed on the enemies, trench which wound slily as a snake through the levels some seven hundred yards away. A spit down from the two boys lay the English line. Out in front of it dozens of bundles and khakis lay limp and lifeless, waiting for the summer to cover them up with her flowers. There's a hundred or more out there, said Bub. God, it's a funny business. Killin' and killin'. One would think we enjoys it by the fuss the pipers in England make of it. Anyway, it's a blurry rotten way of fighting, he continued, as he changed his position by the fraction of an inch, without removing his eye from the tip of the rifle foresight. God, he whispered, I have him now. I saw something move just like a bird. I'll give him a round. Don't mutter Flanigan under his breath. It's no good firing if you're not sure of your man. One shot will give us all away, and that's the 20th time you've seen him. Each time in a different spot. He's not like a bird. He can't be in two places at one time. What the hell? Don't move! Crapping my guts, grown Bub. Wiggling a little. God, it ain't off giving me a chip. Oh, whoa! The youth kicked out with both legs, raised his head an inch or two, and brought it down again to the level of the earth. Flanigan swore under his breath, and cursed Bub with vehemence. I can't help it, said Bub. I must move. I'd rather have a bullet in the head than a cramp in my belly. Whoa! It'll twist me up like a hedgehog. May he, whispered Flanigan, turning half left, and fixing his eyes on spuddle. What? You know, if you're seen moving, you'll get a bullet across here. I don't care a damn, said Bub. But I do, muttered Flanigan. Next time I come out sniping, I'm going to take a man with me, one that won't give a position away when he has got a sore tummy. I'm not going to move no more, said Bub. Going to be quiet as a sandbag. Oh, whoa! How's your cramp now? asked Flanigan, when Bub had been quiet for a good ten minutes. Gone is it? It's opted, said, spuddle with a laugh. Blimey. Both men cowered to earth, giggling nervously as the bomb burst, scattering a cloud of dust over them. The second shell burst, and a third, they must have spotted us, said Flanigan, frowning at the fields. If they have it's all up, but the shelling ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the youngsters breathed freely again. Cleaning out their guns, I suppose, said Flanigan. Luckily they didn't clean us out of existence. I'm tired of waiting here. I'm tired and hungry and not, said Bub. But we can't get out of this damn place till night. They won't have the laugh on us when we get back. Not half, said Flanigan, absently. And I bet Captain Thorley a bob I'd lay the sniper by the yields, said Bub. But it's no go. Well, where can the fellow be, asked Flanigan, removing a speck of dust from the backside of his rifle with a cautious hand. No man can fire at us from the German trench. It's behind our eyes, and even if one of the Bolsheists looks over the parapet, he can't see our trench. But still the fact remains that no sooner does one of our boys look over than a bullet zips past his ear. Where does the bullet come from? The sniper must be between the lines. He must, but where? Spuddle shrugged his shoulders helplessly and muttered, we was fools coming out here. But he is done for four of our fellows, and he must die. He doesn't. He shook a cautious little head and became silent. The sun sank down the sky, and in its sight slid along the barrels of the rifles, from handguard to muzzle whenever the weapons were moved. Flanigan crunched a biscuit with zealous teeth. Bub traced furrows in the ground with his trigger finger, but all the time kept his eyes fixed on the front. Our boys are making tea now, he said. It's about four o'clock. I suppose that damn sun's in no hurry neither. There he ejaculated suddenly. One of our boys is put his head over the trench wait. Both men heard it, a smothered shriek like the sound of a drowning puppy. He has got it in the head, said Bub, in a fierce voice. The bloody fool. Flan, what is it, Bub? I saw smoke, said Bub, speaking calmly. Just look over. See a little holler near the German lines? Yes. Oh, there's a dead man there with his knees curled up. Got him? That's the place. I saw puff of smoke, and something moved. Look, Flan, see something shining? I see it, said Flanigan. The sun's catching the sniper's eye. Both the youngsters drew their weapons taught to their shoulders and adjusted their sights. 450 inquired Bub, adjusting his sight to 450 yards. A little lower, a little lower, said Flanigan. Make it four, and you'll not be far out. Be hard to judge. If we hit the dead man, he'll not raise the dust. You ain't first, Bub. Bub's left cheek twitched, and his eye took in the objective. He pulled the trigger. The spurt of dust flew into the air, a little to the rear of the dead man. Aim low, and we'll get him next time, said Flanigan. Both rifles spoke together. A figure detached itself from the limp lump which lay in the hollow near the enemy's lines, rose to a standing position, and beat the air with agitated arms. Thus for a moment, then the thing collapsed in the abject heap on the ground. That's all, said Bub. The boys in the trench are firing now. They'll finish him off if he's not done in already. The rifles cracked spitefully in the trench, which rimmed the base of the slag heap. The sun sank lower, and the shadows lengthened. The two youngsters broke biscuits, gnawed vigorously, and waited for the darkness to fall. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of The Brown Brethren This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Brown Brethren by Patrick McGill Chapter 13 The Trenches All night the frogs go chuckle, all the day the birds are singing, in the pond beside the meadow, by the roadway poplar line. In the field between the trenches are a million blossoms. Spring twicks the grass of silver bayonets, where the lines of battle lined, where man has manned the trenches for the maiming of his kind. From soldier's songs The trenches a world within itself, having customs, joys in Greece, peculiar to its limitations. The inmates can only claim for the most part a short existence. They have degrees of opulence and poverty, but the former is far removed from those who are legally heirs to it, and all the dwellers in the trench commune share their poverty in common. The word ours is on all lips. Say for a few relics of outside civilization there is nothing which a man claims is mine. Food and drink and clothing are ours, as also are the parcels from home, though the men to whom they are addressed have generally the privilege of opening them. Money has lost all its value, for the time being food is not sold here, and all men have to work at the same job, and they work well for the safety of their bodies depends on the labor of their hands. Again in the carping times of peace a soldier may depend upon the sweat of others for his daily needs. Here in the trenches he is a socialist in the highest sense of the much abused word. The life of the commune is seldom monotonous, its uncertainty makes it interesting, its novelty never wanes, the trench has its history, every dugout a legend, and the shell-riven alleys of war are steeped in tradition. The narratives of the trench are handed on from regiment to regiment, a word or two on the firestep while the battalion just going out changes places with the relieving battalion, and the legend of an adjacent dugout is made plain. Such scraps of conversation as these may be heard, that dugout on the left got a hole in the roof the other night, the time expired man who was going off to Blighty the next day went in there and lay down to Kip, the whiz bang yet the roof and the poor bloke went west. The Germans occupied these trenches at one time, the guards charged them and not a man escape, you'll see their dugouts all along here. The sniper used to play L with this bay a month ago, he used to send the bullets into the trench, took them in some time to discover them, then they got him, he was up on the top of a chimney stack in the village behind the German trench, he could see right down the trench, our artillery brought the chimney down and the sniper with it. So the stories are told and retold and passed from one set of soldiers to the next who occupy the trenches. No doubt stories become distorted and enlarged in the course of time, but always there is a grain of truth in the most exaggerated trench story, and every tale gives an added interest in a subtle touch of romance to the locality. The mean primitive trench, the home of the brown brethren, is not without certain features of grandeur, and an atmosphere of mystery pervades the whole place, do no doubt to its close association with death. It was yet dark in the trenches of the Cologne sector, a much beshell locality on Vimy Ridge, but a faint subdued flush showed on the eastern sky far away behind the enemy's lines. Stars were twinkling, coldly clear overhead and a keen wind rustled along the floor of the trench. Big mutterings and rumblings could be heard in the dugouts. The men already warned to stand to arms on the banquette were snatching a few moments extra repose, hugging with miserly desire at an additional minute's rest. Sergeant Snogger came running along the trench shouting, stand to, stand to, he called. There was no particular hurry for the sector was then a comparatively quiet one. But the sergeant merely ran because a brisk pace was a most effective means of driving away the sleepy feeling which was fostered by the narcotic odors of the dugout. The men turned out yawning and swearing, then broke into a brisk run round and near traverse and back again to their post by the doobie sprinkled bayonets. One man looked across the parapet, fixed an indifferent eye on the ridge, then burst into a ragtime chorus which a mate took up with vigor. The suave wood, the shell-scarred spinny where the trees were flung broadcast by high concussion shells, lay on the left, wrapped in shadow and hiding many mysteries. In it was many a little grave where the kindly earth covered friend and foe alike. It was a place of many secrets of strange and vague whispering. There in the dawn the spirits of the dead men seemed to hold converse. But by day the earth could not hide them. The weapons of the quick dug them again from the graves and flung them out on the riven spaces of the restless earth. The air was cold and keen. The men covered their chins with the collars of their khaki coats, lit their cigarettes and lent against the parapet. They dozed for a moment and then woke guiltily with a start. Nobody had noticed them. They dozed again. The east flush crimson, the German trench that the left showed dark against the glow and stood out distinctly. The sniper's bullet ripped a sandbag in a shower of fine white dust dropped into the trench. No one paid any heed. The birds were out hopping from prop to prop of the barbed wire entanglements, a lark soared into air pouring out an ecstatic song. The dead men on the levels could now be seen lying close to the earth in limp and ghastly attitudes, the birds singing above them. The sun was up, a million dew drops sparkled in a glorious jeweled disarray on the wires. The field had taken a greener hue and in many places the daisy peeped timidly up from the soft grasses. A white mist circled round the spinny and the gaseous and the trees became more distinct. Looking southwards down on the level lands, one could see the double crassure trailing out on one side of the village of Lowes and on the other to the mining hamlet of Morocco. A way down on the left 12 kilometers away lay a lens with its many chimneys and a number of the chimneys smoking. The enemy were probably working the mines. The terracotta houses stood out very distinct and seen nearer to us than they really were. The air was very clear and a perfect flood of brilliant sunshine lit the town. The enemy's trench and the dead men lying out on the field. The order to stand down had long since been given and the men were now busy preparing their breakfasts. Braziers were a light in the dugouts and the red glow of flaming coat stood out in vivid contrast to the dark interiors. Little wreaths of pale smoke curled up over the trench and the air was full of the odor of frying bacon. Spuddle was frying his bread in the grease and to judge by the expression on his face he was very interested in his work. Nothing else seemed to trouble him. The sniper's bullet hit the sandbag again and a spurt of chalk was whisked into the frying pan. The youth looked up obviously annoyed and swore whole heartedly and he bent to his work again. Breakfast ready, Bob, Bowdy and Flanagan sat on the fire step and ate. I have an appetite like the war casualty list said Flanagan. It's always crying for more than is never satisfied. It's almost as bad as Bob when he came back from hospital. I'd rather be here than in the horse said Bob. The breakfast is not to be laughed at. The fare was indeed excellent and every man did it justice. Each had a mess tin of tea, a thick slice of buttered bread and a rasher of bacon. Tongues were loosened and the talk became general for there were so many things to talk about. The week old papers which came by last night's post were read and comments passed on the contents. The full page advertisement in the leading daily came in for a fair share of sarcasm. This advertisement told of the virtues of a wonderful beauty cream just discovered. He gave a most delightfully delicate pink flush to the skin and took away the effects of 20 or 30 years' wear from the woman's face. It was the talk of London. While the society women were using it, ladies so and so had said so and so about it. The celebrated actress A. Blank vowed that it was the only thing which England had waited for since the early part of the last century, etc. From my own part I wish they invented something to take away the crawlers off my clothes, but old remark as he finished his tea. I'm going to have a coot. He got to his feet, took off his tunic and donned his equipment over his shirt. Bouty went into the dugout to have a few hours' sleep. Flanigan sat down on the fire step and lit a cigarette. It's getting quite hot, spud hole, he said. Odd as L, spud hole replied. At that moment a shell burst amidst the poppy flowers on the open in front of the sector and spud hole, who was making his way towards the dugout door, clapped his hand to his neck and exclaimed, I've copped one this time. It's given me jip. Flanigan shouted, stretch your bearers. Then he turned to help his mate, but even as he did he felt a sudden penetrating pain pierce his own chin, and the wasp which was responsible for the sting flew off to a safe distance and poised itself in the air over the dugout. Fitzgerald, knowing that it was contemplating another attack, prepared to retreat. It's wasp butthole, he yelled. Will clear off round the corner. But before they moved, Bouty Benners rushed out of the dugout, festooned with angry wasps. Good God, he yelled, striking out with both hands. I'm stunning to death. My pillow was a nest of the swine. Get out, you vermin. Got that one. Did I? He stung my finger. Oh, blast! The three retreated on the double round the traverse and into the next bay. The occupants were just sitting down to breakfast, to good breakfast, for the post had come and parcels were bulky. What the blazes is this one of them, exclaimed, as the crush of men round at the corner, waving their arms above their heads. These air blokes are working their tickets, I suppose. He finished his remark with a yell for an enterprising wasp that had flown the route and stung the speaker on the nose. Then the insect made the round of the breakfast party. A few fled instantly and escaped. Others took to their heels at the first sting, but the man who waited to pick up the sultana cake and the tin of sardines had all the colors of a board school map on his face for weeks afterwards. A narrow crooked trench infested by furious wasps is not a healthy locality. The insects outmaneuvered the soldiers at every turn. The men turned the third buttress, feeling that they had escaped their persecutors, only to find that the insects had crossed the top of the traverse and were in waiting round the corner. As a man runs a trench, is a weary pathway. As a wasp flies, it presents no difficulties. The place was in an uproar. The wasps had attacked on both sides. Some drove them and left. Others flew after them on the right. In every bay their numbers seemed to have increased. At the traverse turning, the soldiers alluded them for a moment only to encounter them in the next bay. A number of men sought safety in the dugouts. The wasps followed and drove them out into the perilous trench again. When the first officer was met, he stood for a moment with one foot in the trench, one in the fire step, and stared in astonishment. His wonderment was short-lived. A wasp announced itself when it alighted on his ear, and immediately the subaltern became one with the rout. Spuddle was now wounded in several places. The morning had been fine and like the rest of his mates, he was in shirt sleeves fighting order. I've come to sting again, he yelled. That's umpteen eleven times. I've always said that I didn't hold with a war like this and bombs and bullets, whiz bangs and pipsqueaks, and now these ear god-forsaken wolfses. That's another one, a blurry bosh. He sniped me from the rim of me cap. God, platoons of him, oh damn! That one took me at the rear where I should have had a patch on me trousers. Again a bay was entered where another merry party was sitting down to breakfast, a gargantuan spread of fried bacon, toast and trench tea. A platoon officer was sharing in the meal. It was a stout good-natured man with a bald head, baby-pink and shiny. The advance party of wasps could not miss the head. The pest came to a halt on it, and being nasty they stung when they alighted. The officer yelled several words which the men had never noticed in his vocabulary before. Groping frantically for his hat, which as often in the crisis was nowhere to be found, he overturned the brazier, the toast rack, and several canteens of tea, scalding the feet of a number of men who were seated on the fire step. The soldiers were up in an instant and raced off along the trench. Rifle's equipment and ammunition were flung down on the floor and trampled into the clay and rubble. At this point spuddle was seized with a happy thought. A newspaper had fallen on the fire and was bursting into flames. Spuddle seized the lighted paper, held it close to his face and kept the wasps away for a moment. But what is the good of it, he grumbled as the flames died down. I'm getting stung behind and burned in front. I'm off and throwing the paper down, he fled. Struggling, shoving, and waving their arms about, the men hustled along the narrow alley. Two soldiers scrambled up over the top into the open, but being seen by the enemy, a brisk rifle fire was opened on them, and they fled back into their wasp infested shelter again. At this point Sergeant Snarger was heard. Seeing two men rushing out into the open field, waving their arms over their heads, he stared at them open mouth and rubbed his eyes with both hands. A hidden sniper had been potting at the parapet for days. The action was not in keeping with crunch discipline. In fact, if the men did not return immediately, they'd be damned unlucky. Back, ye fools, come back, ye young. What the blazes was that? The wasp swept past his face like a spent bullet, swung back again, and stung him on the forehead. A sack he caught him on the neck, a third on the arm. He turned and ran. For Flanagan he was unlucky enough to have his patees off when the stampede started. In a few moments a wasp had got up the leg of his trousers, and stung him a half-dozen times before he squashed it to pulp. What happened when the Irish rushed into a highland regiment on the right must be left to the reader's imagination. Never before had the gale been so conscious of the nakedness of his knees. He gave vent to his wrath in vehement words, and it was found difficult to ascertain whether his anger was directed against the wasps or the men who were responsible for their coming. Was it at the hundredth traverse or the thousands that the effectives of the besetting force lost an appreciable amount of intensity? That was a matter for conjecture, but this alone is known. A jar of marmalade which got overthrown in a bay enticed the insects, and many stopped to feast on the disbanded treasure. But a few followed with unabated ardor. These were counter-attacked and destroyed, and afterwards the soldiers bombed the bay of the broken jar with a certain amount of success. The Irish strode back defiant and alert, ready for anything. But the wasps gave no further trouble. Here and there one or two were seen poised in air over a line of sandbugs, but these fled at the approach of the men. The dugout in which they had originally entrenched was left in complete seclusion for the rest of the day, and at night, Bowdy and his two mates approached the place in slow, methodical order. They found the wasps nest in the corner of the wall and poured two mess tins of boiling water on it. A third mess tin remained, but it was not needed. Well, I have a drop of char now, said Bub. The evening is getting cold now and we want something hot. Right, oh, said Bowdy, a lot of fire in here now that the wasps are gone. He lit a fire, boiled the water, and made the tea. Outside, a sniper was potting at the roof of the dugout. He had been sniping all day from where none could determine. Wonder what he's doing it for, Bowdy, as he sat down and reached for the mess tin, which was bubbling merrily on the brazier. They'll never pot one of us. Even as he touched the mess tin, a bullet ricocheted off the parapet outside, hissed into the dugout and pierced the bottom of the mess tin. The tea poured out and extinguished the fire. Well, that's past a joke, Bowdy muttered, though me blind if I'm not going out tonight to daylight through that boundarying bush. End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of The Brown Brethren. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Brown Brethren by Patrick McGill. Chapter 14, The Sniper. I'll teach you, you bounders, to snipe, for I'm nosing around with my face to the ground and around in the breach of my knife. You'll best keep a blurry look out, for there's no end of trouble about with a round in the breach. I'm going to teach you, you impotent sniper, to snipe from the deadly breach. Having blackened his face with a burnt cork, Bowdy banners fixed his sword on his rifle and clamored over the parapet into no man's land. The hour was midnight, the darkness had settled on the foreign line and the star shells were rioting in the skies. Although the day had been hot and bright, the sky was now covered with clouds, not a star was visible, and objects quite near at hand could scarcely be distinguished. The air was warm and still, and not a blade of grass was moving. The only sound which Bowdy banners could hear was the dull rustle of his own clothes, as he crawled across the level ground on all fours, making his way towards the German lines. Bowdy was out on a great project, an adventure after his own heart. For many days the German had been potting at Cologne Sector, but none had been able to locate the position of the sniper. One thing, however, was evident. He was stationed somewhere in no man's land. The German trenches were hidden by a hillock, and the English trenches were immune from observation from that quarter. Bowdy crawled carefully forward, his eyes alert, and his ears strained for any untoward sound. Now and again a flash would light up the levels in front, and you could hear a bullet sing past his ears towards the sector which he had just left. But the flash was deceptive, and lights were varied misleading in the darkness. The sniper took care to fire only when a star-shell held the sky above him. In this way the flash of his rifle, merging as it did into the flare of the star-shell, could hardly lay claim to a separate existence. I'm not going to find him, muttered Bowdy bent his under his breath. It's like looking for a needle and blind me, that was a near-go. The bullet swept past Bowdy's head with such a vicious hiss that he put up his hand to feel if it had touched him, but he was unharmed. Blow me blind, he muttered, and crawled forward hurriedly. Blow me stone-blind if that wasn't a near-go. The boundary can't see me, he thought. I have him black in my face for nothing. He continued crawling stealthily on his stomach, dragging his rifle after him. Every movement was made softly, but to Benner's, the sound of his trousers rubbing on the grass seemed to carry out as far as the German trenches. Now and again as he lay still and stared at the level in front, thought he could discern something moving. Then he would remain absolutely motionless for a few minutes, listening and watching, but it was all quiet. Nothing to be heard saved the wind rustling and a stray mouse running through a little clump of bracken ahead. The sniper had become very quiet now. His rifle had not spoken for several minutes. He'll be having a kip, Bowdy thought, and got to his feet. The long crawl had made his knees sore, and his feet felt numb. Standing upright, he placed his rifle between his knees and stretched his arms. The light of the last star shell had died away. The circle of Verizon had grown smaller, and in the near distance objects stood out weirdly silhouetted with a blurred, though definite, outline. It was then that several star shells went up, and the open was lit with the brilliance of day. In the glaring light, Benner saw the sniper, who was standing barely a dozen yards away, his hand resting on his rifle. Benner's could see that he had his sword fixed and the steel shone brightly. I'll make him a prisoner, Bowdy said in the loud voice, and made it the man as a hawk swoops on a lark. The sniper heard Benner's approach, turning his eyes and sprang up to the defense. As he around in the breach, Benner's asked himself, shall I fire at him or not? Even as he approached, Bowdy saw the German raise his rifle to the shoulder, and a sharp report rang out. Bowdy blinked at the flash, but the bullet went wide. I'll settle you, he said in the loud voice, and rushing up he thrust his bayonet forward. The sniper parried it, and for a moment there was a brisk duel. Then Bowdy saw an opening for a left point, a favor of his which had never failed. Now, however, it did not work. The sniper stepped to the right, by a deaf move, brought his own bayonet point downwards to the ground, and Bowdy tripped across it in the rush forward and went to earth. Lowly blind muttered Bowdy as he fell, and made a wild effort to secure his own rifle, which had slipped out of his hands. But in this he was unsuccessful. The darkness had fallen, and the weapon had disappeared. No doubt it was lying quite near, but there was little time at Bowdy's command to scrutinize the field around him. One hope, however, remained. As Bowdy fell, his legs had managed to close around the German's rifle, and the barrel of the weapon was held in a vice-like grip. Bowdy was the strongest man in the regiment. He was a grand man on the march, and on the mat a wrestler, second to none. On march or mat he had no equal. He held the rifle taut for a moment, and in war the moment is often of supreme importance. As the German endeavored to pull the bayonet clear, Bowdy let go his hold, got to his feet, and gripped the man by the shoulders. For a second both wrestled fiercely, and as they panted and strained, the weapon dropped to the ground, neither bent to lift it. The starshell rose in the heavens, and the Englishman had a clear view of the sniper. He could see that he was deep-chested, unshapely, bearded. He glared at Benners with malignant eyes, and his lips twisted into a snarl that almost reached his heavy brows. You often have no chance with me, he grunted. I am wrestler on English musicals. Then with a yell he struck out with both fists for Benner's head, and Bowdy, wise with a wisdom born of a thousand aching contests, ducked and dodged, just in time to evade the blow to his head, and the kick which the sniper aimed for his stomach. Followed, a mad tussle of flying fists and swiftly moving bodies. Then came an instant slow, and the fighters clutched one another in a tense embrace. Benner's hand resting on the sniper's face, the sniper's fist on Benner's stomach. Breaking from the clinch, Benner stopped backward only to return again, with a heavy left-handed blow which took his opponent full on the jowl. The German never winced. The damned professional wrestler muttered Benners, and instinctively he knew that he had met a man who would take any amount of beating. Benner's crouched his left foot, a trifle advanced, his head drawn down well between his shoulders, and shielded by one of his hands. The other hand covered his stomach. The sniper paused, irresolute for a moment. Then, with tiger-like fury, swung into his man, striking out rapidly with both fists. Guarding his body carefully, Benner's waited, ready for an opening, and when he saw his way he drove heavily with both hands for the sniper's mouth. The two blows went home. The German stepped back several paces, his mouth dripping with blood. Both had now forgotten about their bayonets. Rage took possession of the sniper, a terrible, murderous rage, and he was upon Benner, striking out with his knees, fists, and boots. Benner's crouched, holding his body compactly together, and covering his face and stomach with his hands. For two minutes he struggled to endure. His enemy was well nigh, resistless, and all the rage and cunning of the tiger were loose in the man. Benner's went to the ground and was twice kicked as he curled over in an endeavor to rise, but, seizing a chance, he gripped his opponent's ankle and brought him heavily to the ground. They fastened on to one another as they lay, and, still in embrace, they got to their feet. As they stood, Bowdy got his hand free and hit the sniper across the mouth. As if by mutual consent they broke apart, and the sniper devoted the fraction of a second to wipe his mouth. Then he rushed in again, and Benner's backed round to save himself from a furious onslaught of stinging blows. The German, vital, and overwhelming seemed to be in his element. All the essence of passion, hate, and elemental madness found expression in this onslaught. Thrice, a twelve-yard circle of ground, was covered, Bowdy fighting gangly, but ever giving backwards. His body and face were now covered with blood, and his hands went up, not in battle, but almost in mute protest against a crushing fatalism. The terrible charges of the sniper, the lightning thrusts of the man's fists, were wearing Bowdy down. Suddenly the German, overconfident, struck out for his opponent's head, leaving his stomach unguarded. Bowdy saw his chance and took it. A heavy swing of his left fist landed on the space between the ribs that forked outwards from the breastbone, and the sniper curled up and dropped like a wet rag to the ground. Bowdy fell beside him, and the two men lay together, quiet as sleeping children. Bowdy turned over on his back and breathed deeply for a space, then stumbled to his feet. I wish I had my bayonet, he muttered, rubbing his hand over his brow. It's a fight between two of us, a fight to death by God he can fight too, but no wonder he's a wrestler, and I feel done up. Bowdy felt very weary. His head was spinning, and he had great difficulty in standing upright. He had one consolation, however. The sniper was in as bad a state as he was. He looked down with vague eyes at the man, and saw that he was recovering from his blow, and the fighting devil was still strong within him. Groping his way to his feet, the sniper assumed an attitude of defense. Come on, said Bowdy, in an energetic tone. I have no time to waste, and I cannot strike you when you're sickly like that man. You should be ashamed of yourself, fought her indeed. English pig-dog grunted the sniper, and sweltering into a tornado of incoherent threats, which the Englishman could not understand. He swept Bowdy round in a ring, and landed lightning blows several times in quick succession. All the man's enormous vitality seemed to have been rekindled. The million beasts of prey were loosed in his body. Benners, struggling fiercely in an endeavor to live through the tempest of his enemy's wrath, groped for a clinch, and swept into his embrace. Here he was safe for a moment, hoped that the German would consume his strength, and this anticipated waste of the opponent's strength lay Benners' hope for success. Leaning his chin on the German's shoulder in a moment to look round. Unreality and ghostliness lay over no man's land, and an uncanny atmosphere settled on the levels. Away down by Loos, a bombardment had commenced, and the red flashes of the guns lit up the restless salient. Near at hand could be seen a barbed wire entanglement, probably the enemy's. Benners saw the flashes of the shells and asked himself what the time was. He felt that he had been fighting for hours, and it appeared to him that he could never get the business to an end. The sniper seemed stronger than ever now. The man was surging with life and mad with hatred. He was a fiend, incarnate, terrible. Fowdy wondered vaguely as he snuckled his head over the sniper's shoulder if the man was tired, if he felt that the contest had lasted long enough. As if an answer to the unspoken thought, the German ducked and caught his man by the ankles, and tried to raise him to his shoulders. Vaguely it drifted into Benner's mind that the German intended to throw him head foremost into the wires, and he shuddered slightly and bent to resist the efforts which his opponent made to grip him. For fully ten minutes both men swayed unsteadily as Benners disputed every inch of the ground on the way towards the entanglement. The sniper was irresistible, and step by step he urged his man nearer and nearer to the horrible barbs. Fowdy now knew what the man's intentions were, and he summoned up all his strength. The blood from a gashed eyebrow was blinding him, but instinctively he did his utmost to press forward in an opposite way to that by which the sniper was taking him. Clutching and straining he resisted gamely until suddenly he felt himself lifted, clean from the ground, and resting on the German shoulders. There was a hurried rush towards the wire, the sniper holding on with all his strength and Fowdy struggling to break free. One of his hands stretched over the German's shoulders, and Fowdy closed his fist and began to thump the man on the back. With a yell of rage the sniper bent down, then straightened his back quickly and flung Fowdy from him. But he had miscalculated his throw and Fowdy landing on his feet at escape from the danger that threatened him. But only for a moment his man was on him again, and the Englishman was flung with a crash into the barbed contraption of war. Fowdy was up in a flash, his clothes torn and his body aching, and he was upon the sniper striking up fiercely for his stomach, landing for lightning blows. His opponent went down, falling like a log, and lay still. Beners, maimed, sore and bleeding, fixed an impeturbable stare on a rising star show, and the stare slowly resolved itself into a weary smile. For two minutes he stood thus silent with one eye, the other had been bunged up. Fixed on the scene in front, the barbed wire entanglements, and the enemy's trench which showed clearly, barely eighty yards away. God, it was a fight, he muttered, a damned hard fight. I suppose I must have a look around for my bayonet now, and a professional wrestler too. At that moment half a dozen dark forms took shape on Fowdy's right. An enemy patrolled probably. Fowdy laid down quietly, rubbed his eyes and listened. Nothing could be seen now, and nothing could be heard, save the deep breathing of the sniper. I hope he doesn't come to and kick up a row, said Fowdy in a whisper. I can't fight a dozen with my fists. One was enough. Something rustled on the ground near him, and a head appeared rising over the dark grass. Then a second head came into view, and a third. The men were crawling towards Fowdy, and were now very near. Then a voice spoke in a low whisper. Blimey had said, There's nothing here. I think there's German wires. That you, Spudhol, Benner's, whispered? Who's that, came the answer? You, Fowdy? That's right, said Benner's, getting to his feet. Don't make a noise. Where are you coming to? We're looking for your body, said Spudhol, standing upright. God, we thought you were dead. What have you been doing? I've been fighting, said Fowdy. Had a bit of a row with this man lying here. He looks as if he's been in the war, said Snager, who was leading the search party. By God you have been knocking him about. I suppose we'll have to carry him back. Do what you like with him, said Fowdy. I'll not be able to help. It'll be as much as I can do to carry myself in. The party got back to the trench an hour later. The sniper was searched, and in his pockets were found in addition to other things, his own photograph taken when he had appeared on the English music halls as a professional wrestler. He was carried down to the dressing station on a stretcher. Fowdy Benner's walked down, and both men were treated by the same M.O. A month later, Fowdy got a class to his DCM. End of Chapter 14