 The brown brethren. CHAPTER I. AT THE CAFE BELVIEW Strict on parade. When I'm on it, I'm ready to shove blokes about if they do not keep steady. Come in the asset, stow it there, where it won't do with me, and then you'll be for it. Swing in the lead. Then the dousiest rankers, that nair-add-cb, or a dose of the jankers. Swing it on snoggers. I'd like them to do it, and good God Almighty, then, I'll put them through it. Off it! I'm off. Then I'll brush up my putties, try and look posh, and get off with my putties, but drink at the café a joke with the wenches, last joke, perhaps, for we're due for the trenches. Then stick to it, pride as our mateys have stuck it, when kissin' the wenches, or kickin' the bucket. From a service song. The night had fallen, and the café Bellevue was crowded with soldiers and khaki. The day's work was at an end, and the men had left their billets to come out and spend a few hours in the wine-shop of Jean Lacroix. A whole division was quartered in the district. It had come back from the firing-line, and was enjoying a brief period of rest prior to its departure for the trenches again. Even here, back near the town of Castel, the men were not free from the sights and sounds of the fighting. That night they could see the red agony of war painting the distant horizon, and hear the far-off rumbling of the big guns as the thunder and tumult of the conflict smote across the world. The men back from the line of slaughter tried not to think too clearly of what was happening out there. In the café Bellevue, where the wine was good, men could forget things. The café was crowded, half a dozen soldiers stood at the bar, and the patrons served out drinks with a speedy hand. Behind her was a number of shelves in which stood bottles of various sizes. Over the shelves were two photographs. One was her own. The other was that of her husband, when he was the thinner man and a soldier in the army. In the house there was one child, a dirty ragged little girl, who sat in a corner and fixed a dull, meaningless stare on the soldiers as they entered the café. Jean Lacroix sat beside the long neck stove, stroking his beard, a neat white little beard which stood percally out from his fat chin. Jean Lacroix was fat, a jelly blob of a man, with flesh hanging from his sides, from his cheeks and from his hands. He was a heap of blubber, wrapped in cloth. When he changed his locality he shuffled instead of walking. When he laughed he shivered and shook his fat, as if he wanted to fling it off. He was seldom serious. When he was, all those near him laughed. A serious Jean was a ridiculous figure. His wife was an aggressive female with a dark mustache, the tongue of a shrew and the eye of a moneylender. She worked like an aunt and seldom spoke to her husband. Jean, wise with the wisdom of a well-fed man, rarely said a word to her. He sat by the fire all day and spoke to anyone else who cared to listen. The sergeant and three men entered and, going up to the bar, called for drinks. These soldiers were billeted at Y Farm, which stood some three kilometers away from the Café Bellevue. They belonged to the London Irish Regiment. The battalion had just come down from Hullock for a rest. Having procured their drinks the four men sat down, lit their cigarettes and entered into a noisy conversation. Before going any further it will be well to say a few words about these men, the principal personages of my story. The sergeant's name was Snager. He was a well-built man, straight as a ramrod and supple as an eel. He was very strict on parade, a model soldier, terrified to recruits in a rank disciplinarian. When you're on parade, you're on parade, was his pet saying. He had a tendency to use the letter W a little too often when speaking. Once he said, admonishing a dilatory squad, you blokes in the wheel-wank must wipe your wipples with wily wags in future. Sergeant Snager was a handsome man, proud as Lucifer and very careful about his person. His mustache was always waxed, his fingernails were always clean, and whenever possible he slept with his trousers placed under his bed and neatly folded. Thus a most artistic crease was obtained. Snager had peculiar ears, their tops pressed very closely into the head, and the lobes stood out. Looking at the ears from the side they had an appearance similar to that of a shovel stretched out to catch something. Seen from behind they looked as if crouching against a parapet waiting for an oncoming shell. The men liked Snager, and the sergeant preferred the company of riflemen to that of his brother and COs. Many banners was a different type of man, a young fellow of twenty-four, sloth-y over medium height but thick-set and sturdy. He had remarkably long arms, heavy buttocks, and broad shoulders, the lattery swung vigorously when marching. This motion imparted a certain defiant swagger to the man, which his placid nature utterly belied. He was of a kindly disposition, extremely good-humored, but very self-conscious and blush-red as a poppy when spoken to. There was something very amiable and kind in his face, something good and comforting in his sleepy eyes, his rather thick lips and full cheeks. His ears perhaps were out of keeping with the repose which found expression on the rest of his features. They stood out from his head alert and ready, as if seemed to jump from their perch onto the ground. He could drink like a fish, but French beer never made him drunk, and champagne merely made him merry. When merry he swore and his companions laughed at this unaccustomed violence. Devil blow me blind, he would say, stretching his long arm across the table at which he might be sitting and bring down his massive fist with a thundering bang. Devil blow me stone blind for a fool, and all the soldiers around would laugh and wink at one another. As much as to say, is he not a big silly fool, not half as clever as we are. Bowdy was not, indeed, particularly clever. He lacked excessive sharpness of wit. But his mates loved him, for his spirit of comradeship was very genuine. He had a generous sympathy for all things good and noble. Often when the boy's tongues were loosened in a French tavern, one of them might be heard saying, Old Bowdy's a damn good sword. I'd follow him anywhere, even to hell. Then the others would answer, none like Old Bowdy. One of the best he is, and a good man. Bowdy was, indeed, a good man, a great fighter, and raids and bayonet charges and balmy encounters, he was a force to be reckoned with and never had an adversary been known to get the better of him. Persistence, staying power, and dogged courage were his great assets, and these when taken in conjunction with his good humor and simple nature made him a loved comrade and worthy friend. Bowdy was now seated at the end table, drinking beer with his mate, and alert youth with a snub-nose and bright, vivacious eyes. His name was Spudhol. Spudhol was a Londoner, a native of Woolworth. His real name was Thomas Bub, but his mates nicked him Spudhol, a slang term for the guard room. The nickname became him, and he liked it, and was not a little proud of the fact that no man in the regiment spent as many days in the guard room as did rifleman Thomas Bub. He was eternally guilty of trivial offenses against army regulations. This was in a great measure due to his inability to accommodate himself to a change environment. He was a costar, unchangeable and unchanged. To him an officer was always governor. He addressed an officer as such, and the Colonel was the old bloke. His tongue was seldom quiet, and the cries of his trade were ever on his tongue. Even on parade, he often gave them expression. He sang well, drank well, fought well, and loved practical jokes. Once at St. Albans, he dressed himself up as a corporal, took two of his mates to the railway station and relieved the military police on duty there. Mistake him for a real NCO, they left the station in his hands. Of course, he took the first train to London. And his return he was awarded fourteen days spud hole. When in the guard room he decided to escape, and at the hour of twelve on the first night, when his sentries stood on watch outside his prison, spud hole broke the window with a resounding thumb. He then rushed back and stood behind the door. He was in stocking soles, his boots were slung round his shoulders by the laces. On hearing the crash, the sentry opened the door, spring into the room, and hurried to the window, thinking that spud hole was trying to escape by that quarter. And spud hole went out by the door. He was very good-natured, in fact, quixotic. Once a recruit belonging to Bub's section was so very slack that the officer brought him out in front of the squad and got him to perform several movements in musketry drill. The remainder of the party had to shout out when the man made any mistakes. As usual, the onlookers saw many faults and shouted themselves hoarse. But Bub was silent. When the slack recruit returned to his place in the ranks, the officer spoke to spud hole. Did you notice any of those mistakes, he asked. Yes, sir, Bub replied. And why did you not say so, inquired the officers. Well, I didn't want to give the bloke away, was Bub's answer. The youngster had spent four years in a reformatory. Afterwards, as a coaster, he presided over a barrel and a turning-off Woolworth Road. His pitch was one of the best in the locality. He fell in love with a girl who kept a barrel beside him. He often spoke of her to Bowdy Benner's. She's not Arfiberdy, would say. Nobody can take a mic out of her. I'm going to get spliced after the war, too. Near the stove sat the remaining soldier. An Irishman named Fitzgerald. He was a thin, graceful fellow of about five and twenty, and could not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His lips full and red, his straight nose, delicate nostrils, black liquid eyes, and long lashes, portrayed a passionate and sensitive nature. He was a thoughtful man, graven, dutiful, but at times as petulant and perverse as a child. Even when most perverse, he was good company. He was exceedingly superstitious. His thoughts generally wandered with startling suddenness from one subject to another, but this was probably due to the use of strong drink. He had had a college education, but took to drink early and squandered all his resources. Then he became a rover and wandered through many parts of the world as sailor, tramp, and outcast. He had slept in Doss houses, on the pavements, in the fields. Once indeed he was a trombone player in the Salvation Army, and again he fought in a Mexican rebellion. Then he belonged to a regiment, the soldiers of which had to wear great coats on their triumphal march through a certain town because of the bad condition of their trousers. Fitz knew a smattering of most languages, but vowed that he was only proficient in one, bad language. At present he was in a gay good humor, and as he spoke to young banners his voice loud enough, but very soft and pleasant, penetrated to the very corners of the inn. "'Do you ever feel afraid?' bowed he asked. "'Funky, you know.' Then without waiting for an answer he went on, "'God, I do feel afraid. Sometimes, out on listening patrol, it's hell for a man with imagination. Crawling out in the darkness between the lines, you hear the grass whispering, and the darkness ahead of you may hide anything. An awful face covered with blood may rise up in front. The hand may come out and grasp you by the hair. The dead are lying around you, poor quiet creatures, but you know that they're stronger than you are. I often wish I couldn't think that I lacked imagination, that I was a clot of earth, just something like that plebeian there. Fitzgerald raised his finger and pointed to Bub, who was wrapping his idle fingers on the leg of his chair. Bub gazed at Fitzgerald and laughed. "'Flebeian,' he exclaimed. "'I know what that is. He had one, but the wheel came off.' "'No imagination there,' said Fitzgerald, with an air of finality. He couldn't be afraid, that creature. No soul I dare ten thousand times as much to overcome my fear as that man would dare to win the VC. When I go out on listening patrol I am always furthest out. I feel if I'm a yard behind the front man he'll consider me a coward, so I get out a yard ahead of him and I tremble all the time. "'God, I had a bad dream last night,' Fitzgerald remarked, swinging from one topic to another. I dreamt I saw a woman dressed in black looking into an empty grave. "'That's a bad sign,' said the sergeant. "'You'll be damned unlucky the next time you go up to the trenches. You'll never come back. You'll get done in.' "'Oh, ha! Come back safe and sound,' Fitzgerald replied, and all seriousness. The dream was a bad one, and portend it some evil. "'And is it not bad enough to get done in?' asked Benner's. "'There are things worse than death,' was Fitzgerald's answer. "'Death is not the supreme evil. But women. It's not good to dream of them, especially if they're red-haired. Did you ever dream of red-haired women, Bowdy?' Bowdy laughed but did not speak. And apparently did not attract him much, and in their company he was shy and diffident. Wine did get away as quickly as possible from their presence. He would rake up some imaginary appointment from the back of his head, ask to be excused, and disappear. Behavior of this kind, though natural to Bowdy, Benner's, was quite inexplicable to his mates. Fitzgerald, having had a drop of wine, was now in a mood to discuss womanhood. "'You're too damn modest, Bowdy,' said, and you don't shine in the company of the fair, dear women. You know the natural mission of women is to please man, and man no matter what he feels should try and look pleased when in her company. If he looks bored, what does that signify, Bowdy Benner's? Eh? It means that he has found her ugly. That's an insult to the sex, to feminine charms and womanly qualities. For myself, I much sooner sin and please a woman than poses a saint and an oiler. Women don't like saints. What they want most in life is love. "'Love, love is the only allurement in existence,' said Fitzgerald, rising to his feet. It is the essence of life, love free and under strain, not tied to the pillars of propriety by the manacles of marriage.' That's a damn smart phrase, isn't it, but whole. Love is sacred. Marriage is not. Marriage is governed by laws. Love is not. Nature has given us love. It is an instinct and we shouldn't fight against it too much. Why should we fight against a gift from God? Some sacrilegious fool tried to improve on God's handiwork and made laws to govern love. It's like man to poke his nose in where it's not wanted. He'd give the Lord soda water at the last supper. Snoggers laughed boisterously. Bob chuckled and a lazy smile spread over about his face. The gestures of the excited Irishman amused him. He sat down, took a deep breath, and went on to speak in a calmer voice. "'Love sweetens life,' he said. "'It is like sugar and children's physics. Here's Spudhold. Were you ever in love?' "'Blimey, not Harf,' Spudhold answered and winked. "'I'm at Harfa Beggar with the birds.' That wenched down at the farm. That girl Fifi is a nice snug parcel of love,' Snoggers interrupted. "'I haven't Harf got my hand in down that quarter. What do you think of her, Fitz?' "'Who?' asked Fitzgerald. He had become suddenly alert. "'Earum,' said Bob, winking at the sergeant. "'Old Fitz ain't off a darger. One ought know the nuts. That's what he is.' "'Fifi!' "'The girl at the farm,' said Snogger, and answered to Fitzgerald's question. You don't say much when you're down there, and her in the room, but your eyes are never off her. I wouldn't say nothing against rolling her in the straw. She came up to me and told me to put my hand in hers. I obliged her. Then she said to me, "'Too soos for your thoughts. I didn't tell her what I was thinking of, but I didn't—or, think!' Snogger laughed loudly. Fitzgerald was silent. "'Bet your—was thinking something—' But wasn't good,' said Bob. "'Aye, an old Fitz has gone dotty on the wench,' said the sergeant. I see it in his eyes.' "'Botheration,' Fitzgerald remarked. "'I know the girl by sight, and I know she makes good cafe au lait, but I wouldn't even know her name until now.' "'Sing a song,' Fitz called out. A good rousin' song with air on it. I paid no heed to that creation. His taproom wit and yokel humor, muttered Fitzgerald. I'm turning to Benner's. But if you desire it, give us a bit o' a song, Fitz,' Benner's replied. "'Give me a cigarette, and I'll sing you a song that I love very much,' Fitzgerald said. It was sung in Ireland by the old woman and the famine-times, when they were dying of starvation. You must picture the famine-stricken leaning over their turf fires and singing their songs of desolation. God, I think it was turf fires that kept the race alive. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 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 2 The Lone Road I want to go home. I want to go home. I don't want to go to the trenches no more, where the bullets and shrapnel do, whistle and roar. I want to go o'er the sea, where the alley-man can't get at me. O my, I don't want to die. I want to go home.'" A trench song. A strange glow over-spread Fitzgerald's face, and he rose from his seat by the stove and sat down again on a bench in a corner and spread out his hands timorously towards an imaginary fire. He bent his head forward until it drooped almost to his knees, and his whole attitude took on a semblance of want and woe beset with an overpowering fear. Then his gasp involuntarily as he waited for the song. A long, drawn-out, hardly audible note that, wavered like a thread of smoke, quivered out into the evil atmosphere of the apartment, who was followed by a second and a third. A strange effect was produced on all the listeners by the trembling voice of the singer. Bob gaped stupidly, his eyes fixed on the roof as he rubbed his chin with the fingers of his right hand. The sergeant drew himself up and listened. Fascinated. Fitzgerald's song was the song of a soul condemned to inevitable sorrow. It was not a relieving touch, not a glow of hope. It was the song of a damned soul. Oh, the praeties, they are small over here. Oh, the praeties, they are small over here. The praeties, they are small, and we ate them skins and all, eye and long before the fall over here. No help and hour of need over here, and God won't pay much heed over here. Man wished, or he'd take heed, and he'll rot the praetie seed and send other malice to feed over here. I wish I was a duck over here, to be eating clay and muck over here. I'd sooner, sooner, I'd sooner. My God, I've forgotten it, Benners, forgotten the rest of the song. Fitzgerald exclaimed, throwing his unlighted cigarettes on the floor, and gripping his hair with both hands as if going to pull it out of his head. Then, as if thinking better of it, he brought both his hands to a side and sat down on his original seat, his whole face betokening, extreme self-pity. My memory, he exclaimed, my memory, why was I brought into being? A minute's silence followed, then an eager glow lit up Fitzgerald's face. A happy inspiration seemed to have seized hold of him. Benners, he exclaimed, in an eager voice, have you a cigarette to spare, Benners? Gork blimey lap, Bub, listen to him. He's always on the earl for fags, and he throws arf of him away. He's not arf a nib, old Fitz. Good heavens, how can I endure such remarks from a damn sassan-nog? I beg your pardon, Bub, Fitzgerald exclaimed, gripping with both fingers the cigarette which Benners had given him in breaking it in two. You don't understand me, Bub, you can't. I don't bear you any malice, but heavens, you are trying at times. By the way, he added, can you give us one of your songs? Bub looked at Fitzgerald for a moment, then lit a cigarette, and got to his feet. What about old Scaboo? He asked, addressing the remark, to all in the room. The soldiers knew that he was going to oblige and applaud it with their hands. Bub fixed his eye on the Patron and started, Madam, have you any good wine, Scaboo, Scaboo? Madam, have you any good wine, Scaboo? Madam, have you any good wine, fit for a rifleman of the line, Scaboo, Scaboo? Ski bullity, Bill, Scaboo? Madam, have you a daughter fair, Scaboo, Scaboo? Madam, have you a daughter fair, Scaboo? Madam, have you a daughter fair, and I will take her under my care, Scaboo, Scaboo? Ski bullity, Bill, Scaboo? Madam, I've got money to spend. Sunk soos, sunk soos. Madam, I've got money to spend. Sunk soos. Madam, I've got money to spend. Seldon, the case with your daughter's friend. Sunk soos, sunk soos. Sunk slummacky, slump sunk soos. The song, an old one, probably, but adapted to suit modern circumstances, was lusterly chorused by the soldiers in the room, Bob having finished that down, but presently rose to his feet again. I'll whistle the chorus of It's a Long Way to Tipperary, he asked. Everybody do it together, and the one that does it through, I'll stand him a drink. Nobody to laugh, and the one that's not able to do it will stand me a drink. Is that a bargain? Nobody to laugh, mind. The men agreed to Bob's terms, and started whistling. But they did not get far. They had drunk quite a lot, and Bob's final injunction tickled them. One smiled, then another. Bouty banners lay back and roared with laughter. He tried to form his lips round a note, but the effort was futile. It was impossible to laugh and whistle at the same time. Fitzgerald was making a sound that reminded the listeners of an angry cat spitting. His cheeks were puffed out, and his nose was sinking out of sight. The landlord rolled from side to side, choking almost, even the patron was smiling. The little ragged girl came across the floor and stood in front of Fitz, her hands behind her back. For a moment she stood thus, then she ran away giggling and hid behind the counter. Fitzgerald got to his feet. Come, sput hole, or whatever the devil they call you, you've won, he said. What a queer creature that child is, boys, he muttered, looking at the youngster, which was peeping slyly out from behind the counter. Is it a boy or a girl? Bob approached the counter and drank the glass of vin rouge which Beners had paid for. Then he thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and began to sing Sam Hall. My name is Samuel Hall. Tiddle-e-fah-lal, Tiddle-e-fah-lal. Boulderize it, you fool, Fitzgerald exclaimed, sitting down again. Boulderize the song, or stop singing. Bad taste, Bob. Bad taste. Drink doesn't improve your morals. Bob ceased singing, not on Fitzgerald's behest, but because the sergeant was standing him a drink. Old John LaCroix was slowly recovering from his fit of laughter. Turn to Fitzgerald. The Bosch broke through by Sushes last night. He said, pointing a fat thumb towards the locality of the firing line. He broke through in hundreds. He is unable to get back now, and he is roving all over the country. They haven't been captured, said Fitzgerald. Some of them said, John, most of them perhaps, but not all. Last night they were about here. Here inquired Fitzgerald. Did you see them? Have I seen them, asked John. Chivering would laugh to them. They'd be seen. They'd disguise themselves as turnips, as bushes, as English soldiers. Last night two of your countrymen, soldiers, left here at nine o'clock, and got killed. John paused. Where were they killed, asked Fitzgerald. You were billeted at Y Farm, are you not? Inquired the innkeeper? You are. Then you came along the road tonight coming here. Did you see a ruined cottage on your right? A little distance back from the road? A mile from here, said Fitzgerald. Yes, we saw it. That is where it happened, said John LaCroix. The two soldiers were found there this morning with their throats cut, lying on the floor. Fitzgerald got to his feet and entered and out her room. There he found a copy of an English magazine lying on a chair. He picked it up and presently was deep in an article which tried to prove that war would be a thing of the past if Prussia ceased to exist. Then he had finished reading. He came back to the man by the stove and found him sitting there all alone. His eyes fixed on the flames. Benners was not there. He had left to company by Spudhol and the sergeant. The farm in which their company was billeted was some two miles off. Fitzgerald looked at his watch and saw that it was nine o'clock. Nine o'clock, he said aloud, and something familiar in the word struck him. Two soldiers left the wine shop the night previous at nine o'clock. In next morning they were discovered lying in a ruined cottage with their throats cut. None of the men now in the inn were billeted at Y Farm. Fitzgerald had to go home alone. He swung his bandolier over his shoulder, lifted his rifle from the table, and went out into the night. The story which John LaCroix had told affected Fitzgerald strongly. A stranger in a new locality was ready to give credence to any tale. Fitzgerald had seen very little of trench warfare. True he had come out to France with his regiment in March of 1915. But then he got wounded on his first journey to the trenches and was sent back to England. He came out again in time to take part in the Battle of Luz and got gassed in the charge. Followed a few weeks in the hospital at Versailles and then he was sent back to the trenches. He'd seen a fortnight's trench warfare, done turns in listening patrol and century ago, before coming back with his battalion to Y Farm near the town of Cassel. So now, although first battalion man, he was in many ways a rookie, one who was not as yet versed in the practices of modern warfare. Now on the way back to his ability he thought of John LaCroix's story in a strange fit of nervousness laid hold of him. What might happen in the darkness, he could not tell. And he wished that his mates had not gone, leaving him to come back alone. They ought to have looked him up. It was an odd with him. He was angry. The road stretched out in front, a dull streak of grey, lined with ghostly poplars. They lost itself in the darkness ahead. The night was gloomy and chilly, a low weird wind crooned in the grass and a belated night bird shrieked painfully in the sky above. Far out in front the carnage was in full swing, the red fury of war lit the line of battle and darts of flame, ghastly red pierced the clouds in a hasty secession of short, vicious stabs. Round Fitzgerald was the flat dead country, black and limitless, and over it from time to time, swift flashes of light would rise and tremble in the gloom like Willowice over a churchyard. The sharp penetrating odor of dung was in the air, the night breath of the low-lying land of Flanders. The shadows gathered round the man silently. One rushed in from the fields and took on an almost definite form on the roadway in front. He could not help gazing round from time to time and staring back along the road. What might be following? He was all alone, apart from his kind. He isolated. One hand gripped tightly on his rifle and the fingers of the other fumbled at his bandolier. He ran his hand over the cartridges, counting them aloud. Fifty rounds. But he had none in the magazine of his rifle. He should have five there, but he would not put them in now. He would make too much noise. He walked at a good steady pace and hummed a tune under his breath, trying thus to keep down any disposition to shiver. His eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness could now take stock of the roadway, the grassy verge, and the ditch on either side. The poplars rose high and became one with the somber darkness of the sky. Shadows lurked in the ditches, bundled together and plotting some mischief towards him. His imagination conceived ghastly pictures of men lying flat in the shadows, staring at the heavens with glazed, unseeing eyes. The throats cut across from ear to ear. What a row his footsteps created! The noisy kicked-up must have echoed across the world. He hummed a tune viciously and stared intensely into the remote darkness of the unknown. The breeze whimpered amid the popular leaves and its sigh was carried over so far away. Again a shadow swept up from the fields and took shape on the road in front. Fitzgerald advanced toward it quickly and collided with a solid mass, a living form. I'm sorry, he muttered. Good evening, said the voice with a queer, strange note in it. You are out late. I'm going back to my billet now, Fitzgerald said, and asked, where are you going? There was a moment's hesitation before the stranger replied, saying, I'm going to the next village. Fitzgerald could now see that the man was dressed as an English soldier in a khaki uniform, a rifle over his shoulder and a bandolier around his chest. Germans often disguised themselves as British soldiers, John LaCroix said. What do you belong to, Fitzgerald asked, stepping off at the momentary halt, the man accompanied him. The army service corps, he answered rudely enough, but his accent struck Fitzgerald as being strangely unfamiliar. In his low guttural tones there was something foreign. English could not have been his mother tongue. For a while there was a silence, but suddenly, as if overcome by a sense of embarrassment due to the silence, the man spoke. Have you been long in France, he asked. I've been here for some time, Fitzgerald answered. What is your regiment? When warned against giving any information to strangers, Fitzgerald gave an evasive reply. Oh, a line regiment, he said. The man chuckled, looks like it, he said. Are you billeted here? I'm billeted at. Fitzgerald stopped and asked, where are you billeted? Oh, at the next village, said the man, a number of the ASC are billeted there. Again along silence their boots crunched angrily on the roadway and ahead the lights of war lit up the horizon. They're fighting like hell up there, said the man. There's a big battle on now. As your regiment been called up. As he spoke he pulled his rifle forward across his chest and fumbled with a bolt. Fitzgerald stared at him, fascinated, his nerve strange to an acute pitch. What are you doing with your rifle, he asked. Oh, nothing the stranger answered and slung the weapon over his left shoulder. Had the man around in the breach, Fitzgerald wondered. For himself he had not even a cartridge in the magazine. What a fool he had been not to take the precaution of being prepared for emergencies. The stranger came close to his side and his shoulder almost touched Fitzgerald's. The rifleman moved to the left, close to the verge of the road and his hand slipped towards his bandolier. It's very dark tonight, he said, as his fingers closed on a cartridge. Very dark said the man. There's no moon, Fitzgerald remarked as he slipped the bolt from his rifle back. Then with due caution he pressed the cartridge into the mouth of the magazine. As far as he could judge the stranger had not noticed the action. No, there's no moon, he said, in answer to Fitzgerald's remark. How far is it to the next village, asked Fitzgerald and shoved the rounds into the magazine. The cartridge clip clattered on to the cobbles. You've dropped something, said the stranger. What was it? I've dropped nothing, the Irishman said. I must have hit my boot against something. He glanced at the stranger's face. White and ghostly it looked, with a protruding jowl and a dark mustache that drooped over the lips. As Fitzgerald spoke he pressed the bolt home and now felt a certain confidence enter his being. There was the round snug in the breach of his rifle, one touch of the trigger. Do you think I dropped a shilling he left? Wish I had one to throw away. Many a one would wish the same, said the man gruffly. Then he whistled a tune through his teeth, a contemplative whistle as if he were considering something. You're at Y Farm, of course, he suddenly remarked. There are a number of soldiers billeted there. You know the way to it. I know the way, Fitzgerald answered. You leave the road at a ruined cottage along here and cross the field, said the man. I'm going that way myself. I leave the road further along, the Irishman said hastily. Nonsense, said the man, past the ruined cottage is the best way. I'm not going that way, Fitzgerald said. Not going that way, repeated his companion. Why not? I don't know the road through the fields there. But I know the way. I prefer to go further along, said Fitzgerald. Two of my mates are just ahead. Where are they, asked this stranger in a tone of surprise. I thought you were all alone. There is just a few hundred yards out in front was the answer, not so far away. Oh, said the man, then that is why you are in such a hurry. I'm in no particular hurry, said Fitzgerald, but it is wise to be back before lights out. He could see the ruined cottage in front now, a black blur against the night. The limitless levels stretched out on either side, frogs croaked in the ponds. Now and then a light shot up from the fields, trembled in air for a moment and died away. The breezes of the night, the unseen multitude, as the ancients called them, capered by, crooning wearily. In front far ahead, the artillery redoubled in intensity, and the sky was lit by the brilliance of day. Hell's loose out there, said the stranger. It's not good to be there. It's not good to die. The stranger turned off the road and walked a few yards down a lane in the direction of the cottage. I'm not going that way, said Fitzgerald, coming to a halt. His companion stopped. Afraid, he said. Afraid, huh? I'm not afraid. The Irishman answered. That'll let the word. All right, you go ahead. I'll follow. The man did not move. He fumbled in his pocket and brought something out, something dark, small, and tipped at the points as if with silver. Fitzgerald imagined it to be a revolver, and he slid his rifle forward so that it's muzzle pointed at the man's body. Ultra weapon up, you fool, said the stranger. And a note of concern was in his voice. I'm a pocket lamp here. We'll get off into the fields now, and I'll light the way with this. This place is full of ponds and drains. Last night I fell into a hole somewhere about this place. You get off in front. I'll follow, said Fitzgerald. You lead the way. All right, the man meekly responded. Now we get off the road. He slipped into the field, and the Irishman followed. Both were now near the cottage, and they could see its bare rafters and ruined walls clearly. They looked gloomy and forbidding. As Fitzgerald gazed at the cottage, he saw a light close to the dark ground. The tremulous flame gleaned for a moment and was gone. Did you see that, asked the Irishman, a light near the cottage? I saw nothing, said his companion. He didn't see the flame. There's somebody in front, friends of yours, maybe. I have no friends here. You saw a light? Nonsense. There, what is that, asked the Irishman, as he heard a thud as of someone falling over a hurdle. Did you not hear it? Yes, what is it, asked the stranger, extinguishing his torch. I heard something. Shall I shout? Why? Why, exclaimed the man, only to find out who's there. Hello, he yelled. Someone answered with a loud hello, and again a light gleamed in the darkness. Who's there, shouted the stranger? It's us, came the answer. Blurry, well lost, and this blurry old. Who are you? Spudolf, Fitzgerald shouted in a glad voice, for he recognized the voice of his mate. Is Boudie in the sergeant with you? Oh, it's old Fitz, butthole, exclaimed. We're lost, the three of us, and we don't know where we are. Do you know the way to the farm? We'll soon get there, Fitzgerald replied. I have somebody with me who knows the way. Bring him along here, then, said Bub. Fitzgerald turned to his companion, who had just moved to one side. But now he could not see him. On his right a dark form became one with the night, and lost itself. I, Fitzgerald, shouted, but there was no reply. Hi there, he cried in a louder voice, but no answer came back. There was somebody with me, but he's gone now, he said to Bub, when he reached him where he stood, along with Benners and the sergeant beside a dark pond near the ruined cottage. Well, we had better try and get back to our billet, the sergeant remark. Damn these beastly feels. We'll be damned unlucky if we don't get out of them. They got into the farmhouse at 11 o'clock. All their mates were in bed and the watchdog at the gate bit Bub in the upper part of the thigh as he came in. End of chapter two, the lone road. Chapter three, in love. As I was going up the road, Mama Zell said, Come in and have some pan ebur and cafe au lait for two. So now I hope the war won't end. I'll never go away and leave my little Mademoiselle who sells good cafe au lait. I hope the war will never end. A curse upon the day that takes me away from Mademoiselle who sells good cafe au lait. From the love of an hour, Fitzgerald made his way to the barn which was above the buyer, sat down in the straw, but did not unloosen his putties or boots. A lamp swing from a beam lit up the apartment, showing the straw heaped in the corners, the sickles and spades hanging from the rafters, the sleepers lying in all conceivable positions, the bundles of equipment, the soldiers' rifles which stood piled in the corners out of the way. Now and again a rat glided across the straw, stood for a moment in the light, peered cautiously round and disappeared. The air was full of the smell of musty wood, of straw and of the buyer underneath. All was very quiet, little could be heard, saved the breathing of the men, the noise of the restless cattle as they lay down or got up again. Snoggers and banners laid themselves on the straw, bowed and curled up like a dog. Snoggers stretched out as swiftly as a statue. Bub undressed and Fitzgerald getting to his feet, applied sticking plaster to the dog's bite. You go mad, you know, said Fitzgerald. The only thing that can save you is to get three hairs of the dog that bit you and put them on there. Having performed his job, Fitzgerald sat down and Bub dressed again. Then he lay on the straw, both hands in his overcoat pockets, one leg across the other and a cigarette in his mouth. Get down to it, Fitz, Snogger, shot it. You're damn slow as showing a leg in the morning, you woman. It's all right, Sergeant, the Irishman replied. I'm just going to look at a paper. I'll be in bed in a twinkling. Dows the glim for you, Kip, then, said the Sergeant. Night. Fitzgerald fumbled in his pocket, brought out a newspaper and looked at it. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, for his eye scanning the printed columns of an advertisement page turned from time to time and rested on the face of Sergeant Snogger. I think it's safe now, said Fitzgerald. One five minutes have passed. Old Snogger is snoring. The Sergeant was indeed asleep, but had not lost his military pose. He might have been frozen stiff while standing to attention on the parade ground and carried from there into the barn and placed down just as he had been standing. Badi was fighting Germans in his dreams. Bub's cigarette had fallen on his clothes and the smell of burning pervaded the barn. Fitzgerald got to his feet, dropped the newspaper, lifted the fag in from Bub's overcoat and turned out the lamp. Then, stepping across the sleepers, he made his way cautiously to the door and descended the steps leading to the farm yard. The night was very quiet and very dark. The lights were out in the farmhouse. No doubt the occupants were all in bed. What am I doing out here? Fitz asked himself, I'm drunk, that's why. He stood still and he could feel his heart beating. Something was moving in the midden and grunting. To pig, I suppose, said the Irishman. They're all over the place. Then he thought of the dog that had bit Bub. Will it bite me, he questioned and moved hurriedly across the farm yard towards the gable end of the building. He stood there for a second to draw breath. Then he went round to the back of the house. All were not yet in bed. The light burned behind a small four-pane window and the shadow of a girl showed on the blind. Standing a little distance from the window, Fitzgerald stared at the shadow, watching its movements. For a moment he had a view of a face in profile, then of a head bent down and an arm stretching out as if pulling a needle from a piece of cloth. The girl, no doubt, was mending some clothes. That's Fifi, said Fitzgerald in a whisper. His voice was husky and a lump rose in his throat. She's very graceful bending over her work. Damn it, I'm in love with her. If not that, I have a great respect for her since I saw her for the first time. I suppose I've been a gay down one, but Fifi, well, I've never felt like this before. Probably I'm drunken tomorrow, but all day and yesterday I felt the same. I don't think I am drunk for I put the bandage on with a firm hand. If she would open the window and look out for only a moment, I want to see her. I must see her. Suppose she spoke to me and then told Snager in the morning, told him that I was hanging about her bedroom window all night. What would he say? Oh, damn Snager, he's a fool. I'll tap on the pain anyway. Fitzgerald went up to the window, pressed his hand softly against the pain, but drew it quickly away. I can't, he muttered under his breath. My God, why have I not more courage, gay down one? But perhaps she'd do something awful. Throw a tin of water or a gay down one, he repeated in a louder voice and then add it. It doesn't matter. I'll let her know I'm here. He raised his hand and tapped lightly on the pain, then turned, walked off for a distance of a few yards and stopped. Looking back, he saw the light turn down and heard the window open. The girl looked out into the darkness. Who is there, she called in a low voice. What do you want? Moving quietly, Fitzgerald made his way back to the window again. The girl could see him now and apparently recognized him. English soldier, you should be asleep, she said, in a voice charged with laughter. Go away, what do you want? I want nothing, said Fitzgerald in a hoarse whisper. In the shadows you could see the outline of her face, which looked strangely white. I was up at the cafe, he said. Coming back, I saw the light, so I tapped. Is it not time for you to be in bed? Listen to him, said the girl, speaking in a whisper and bringing her face close to the man's. Time to be in bed, indeed. What does it matter to you when I go to bed? And I have work to do. You English soldiers never work, go away. You are always working, Fifi, said Fitzgerald, without moving from where he stood. Always working, repeated the girl. We are not like English girls, they never work. They have too much money, but I must go to bed, she said, making as though to shut the window. Au revoir, English soldier. Not yet, not yet, said Fitzgerald, speaking hardly. I want to speak to you. What are you going to say? Yes, the girl in a hesitating voice. Fitzgerald was silent. He had so much to say, but in reality he said nothing at all. He merely coughed and buttoned the pockets of his tunic and buttoned them up again. He looked at the girl and her eyes dropped. What are you going to tell me, she asked. Nothing, Fitzgerald stammered. I mean, au revoir, Fifi. He turned round and walked away. When he got to the corner, he heard her calling. English soldier, come back, she said in a loud whisper. Fitzgerald was back with her in an instant. What is it, Fifi, he asked. Souvenir, au revoir, she said in a coaxing voice. Gem, at badges, many souvenirs, boots for my father in the trenches. Other soldiers give me souvenirs often, but you never. The sergeant gave me a big knife, also chocolate. His mother sent it to him from England, but you never give me anything. Will you give me some souvenirs tomorrow? All right, I will, Fifi, said Fitzgerald, many souvenirs. And I'll give you beer, café au lait, several things, said the girl, pulling the window a little ways toward her. Au revoir, English soldier. She held out her hand, left the nearer to her heart, and Fitzgerald took hold of it. Fifi looked at him, smiling. Are you in love, he asked. No, said the girl. Are you? No, certainly not, said Fitzgerald. I never have been. I don't believe you, said Fifi. You English cannot be trusted. The English girls are so well-dressed. Why don't you believe me, asked Fitzgerald, pressing her hand, and she made no effort to withdraw it. I've never been in love, but now, since I have met you, I would do anything for you, Fifi. You were the nicest girl. He paused, conscious, stricken, for his words seemed so futile. For a moment he paused, and then a strange thing happened. In all his days afterwards, he could not account for it. How it took place was beyond his understanding, but he had taken Fifi in his arms and kissed her. Fifi, I love you, he said. I'll do anything for you. After the war, I'll marry you. Come here and live, or take you to England, whatever you desire. Tell me that you care for me, he said, pressing her to his breast. Fifi started back like a frightened fawn and pulled the window to. Almost immediately, she opened it again and looked out. Go away, English soldier, she said. But there was no anger in her voice. You're drunk, and you should be in bed. Fitzgerald hung around the place for quite an hour afterwards, but Fifi did not come to the window again. Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, he found himself in the house of Joseph Barbet. The man himself was away at the war. His wife and daughter were running the place during his absence. They had only one servant, a relative of Madame Barbet, an oldish man, lean and twisted up, with his mouth almost hidden between nose and chin. But he was a good worker. Few could surpass him at his labor on the wet level fields. Madame Barbet was very industrious. She got out of bed every morning at five and nine at night saw her finishing up the day's labor. So from week to week, her toil went on all the year round. Only on Sunday did she seek a moment's relaxation. Then she went to church, told her beads, and prayed for her good man, who was away in the trenches fighting the battles of France. Fitzgerald was sitting near the stove, riding up his diarrhea, habit he contracted at the beginning of the war and what she was still religiously pursuing. Mother Barbet was washing her dishes. She was a thin, shriveled woman of 40 years of age, bent a little through hard work, but still untiring as an aunt. An adventurous hen was picking up the crumbs under the chairs. Two chickens less daring than their older feathered friend came in, stalked gingerly up to their mate, seized each a crumb in their beaks and ran off as fast as their red legs could carry them. Mother Barbet finished her work, wiped the table, dusted the stove, put the plates on the dresser and sat down. Fitzgerald continued riding, but looked up now and again took in with his eyes the walls blackened with smoke, the rafters festooned with spider webs. The strings of onions hanging from the beans, the tall wooden clock beside the dresser and the dog which lay under the table, wagging his tail and shaking its ears as if trying to get rid of flies. Then Fitzgerald's eyes were attracted by something else. Outside the door, Fifi was standing, throwing crumbs to the hens which clustered round her feet. She was a well-built girl of 18 with velvety black eyes and a fascinating face. She wore a gray blouse and a striped petticoat which reached a little lower than her knees. Strong sobots and a kerchief which was tied carelessly around her head. A prudent and hard-working girl, she had already fed the pigs, flattered and milked the cows in addition to the 101 little things which must be done every morning in a farmyard. She was in a good humor when she entered the house. Her white teeth and bright eyes were made for laughter and the girl's face generally wore provokingly coquettish expression. But behind it all lay hidden a reserve of restraint and dignity which showed itself when the soldiers, speaking as soldiers often speak, went too far with an indelicate jest. Fifi would look steadily with wide open eyes at the speaker for a moment. Then the eyelids would slowly descend and the girl would rise to her feet and proceed with her work. This morning she went up to Fitzgerald where he sat beside the stove writing. To your sweetheart, she asked. The Irishman flushed crimson and closed the diary. No, I have no sweetheart. You haven't slept, you look tired, said Fifi. I couldn't sleep, how could I after last night? What a fool he had been, he thought, raving of love and marriage at the cafe than proposing marriage to Fifi. If Snager and Bub and Bowdy knew all that had happened last night, what would they say? It would never cease tweeting him. And Fifi, what was she thinking of now? Of the affair at the window, probably, he looked up at her. Her eyelids dropped, but behind the shyness there was something impetuous and passionate in the whole of her personality. And he had kissed her last night. He had pressed those lips in one great kiss, but now she seemed very far removed from him. And the souvenirs, the request of the night before seemed so unworthy of the girl. You couldn't sleep last night, said Fifi. Why not? I was thinking of you, of all that took place. But you were drunk. I was not, I remember all that happened. I have gathered up a lot of souvenirs for you. I don't want any, said the girl, I was only joking. But you must, no, no, have some coffee. Who are you writing to, she asked. Nobody, said Fitzgerald, it's part of a diary. Is that true? Yes, quite true. Not writing to a woman in England, said Fifi. There was a soldier here some time ago. He used to run after me and I discovered that he had a wife in England. I have neither wife nor sweetheart, said Fitzgerald. But a few Fifi, I'm serious, you know. At that moment, a French soldier came to the door, a man of about 42. Over his shoulder, he carried a kit bag. Fifi and her mother ran up to the man and embraced him. Joseph Babette was back home on leave after seven months of war. He was a strong muscle, well-built man of medium size, a good soldier and diligent worker. He was a well-to-do farmer, a respectable man who was trusted by his neighbors and bound into none. He placed his kit away carefully in a corner, vague good morning to Fitzgerald and sat down. Fifi brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Babette spoke about the war. He had just come from Suchet, and it was a bad locality. He had never known a spot as bad, no peace day or night. And as far as you could see, the war would never come to an end. He drank his coffee, got to his feet and went outside. Fifi, whose eyes were wet with tears of gladness, lifted the kit bag from the ground and took it into the bedroom. Where is your father gone, Fitzgerald asked her when she returned. Oh, he has gone out to work, she replied. Things are behind hand on the farm, we have so little help. Fitzgerald went out into the farm yard. Josef Babette was harnessing a car horse. His coat off and his shirt sleeves thrust up over his elbows. Sergeant Snogger was washing at the pump. How are you feeling after last night, he asked. Not so bad, Sergeant Fitzgerald replied. Ben and C. and Fifi asked the sergeant. I have said Fitzgerald, she's a splendid girl. I love her, and if she'll have me after the war, I'll marry her. God, there's something grand in her. Too good for me, but I don't know what to make of her. She won't trust me, thinks I'm married or something like that. And I love her, but she refuses to understand me. We are so far apart somehow. Snogger looked through his soap sets at Fitzgerald, astonished at the Irishman's burst of confidence. There is nothing artificial about the girl Fitzgerald continued. She's grand, so simple and original. She says what she thinks and is far too childish to hide her thoughts. And I don't think she has much of an opinion of us. I don't think any of these are French, when she's caring much for an English Tom, he said Snogger. They'll go a little way with them and then they turn the deaf ear. I never was able to fool about with them. They're more freer than English birds at first, but it's, ands off, if you want too much. They're all right if it's only coffee and kisses, but you'll never get any further. Snogger's wink knowingly and laughed. Fitzgerald made his way into the barn. End of chapter three, chapter four 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 four, To the Trenches. I knew a bird at Amersmith, and three or four at Bowe, but that was for the war begun a damn long time ago. But I'm a blurry Tommy now and never lose a chance when far away from dear old Smoke to kiss the girl's offrance. Never lose a chance, leave the deer as a dance. It wasn't bad at Amersmith. God, it's fun in France. From Forgotten Girls. It was early morning. The soldiers billeted and Y Farm were rousing themselves and making preparations for the march up towards the firing line. It was now coming toward the Christmas season. The weather was cold and rainy, the farm yard damp and muddy, and a haze rose over the midden in the center of the yard. Inside the farmhouse, two officers were sitting down at the only table eating a breakfast of bread, butter, eggs, and tea. The soldiers were in the barn preparing their early meal. The barn scene of daylight was a cold bleak, cheerless place and a broken roof and rough uneven floor. The men shivered as they toiled. They had slept in the cold and felt frozen when they got up. A big fire had been lit in the buyer beneath. The smoke filled the whole place and stung the eyes of the soldiers who worked at the cooking. Sergeant Snager was super intending operations upstairs and fretting, fuming and coughing. He was in a very bad temper, having lost a week's wages at the gambling table the night before. Hurry up, you man, he yelled. I never see this slummacky or crush in my natural. You're slouching about same as if you were in the trenches. Come on, Pouty, come on Fitz. Get a blurry move on you spud hole. You're drowsy, man, you're drowsy. You must wake up. We're off from here in an hour's time and we've a long march before us. You'll be in the trenches for Christmas. Where are we stopping tonight, as Fitzgerald, who was pouring tea into a mess tin of boiling water, brought up from the buyer? At the rit, said Snager, with fine irony. I heard we were billeting at Vient, someone remarked. I thought we were bound for Bethune, Pouty Benner said as he lifted a rash or a bacon from the lid of his mess tin. You thought, sputtered Snager. God almighty, man, you're not paid to think in the army. If you think too much, you'll find yourself damn unlucky. Anyhow, you'll find things hot in the trenches when you get there. This time I'm telling you, he continued, lowering his voice. There's big things in the wind. We're going up by slow stages. I'm glad that we're going. I don't like these rest. There's too much damned work to do. Give me the trenches when I'm on the lookout for a cushy time. It's better than ear. The sergeant took stock of the apartment with vigilant eyes. Now this has to be swept up before you go away, he said. All faggants draw and everything has to be cleaned out. What's the hell good a clean in this Kabush grout, Bob? It can't be made clean. It's got to be done, said Snager, raising his eyebrows with the decision of a verdict beyond appeal. It's orders, and if orders isn't obeyed, you'll find yourself damned unlucky, as anyone got a fag to spare. Somebody handed the sergeant a cigarette and he lit it. This seemed to put him in a good humor and he began relating to Boudie Benner's, the story of his card playing the night before. Couldn't get a card, he said. I was dead off all the night. Once I got a top trotter, but Sergeant McManus had a pre-Olive Deucis. I went some money on my hand and that go. But it's as I've always said, when a man's luxe out, it's out. But when it's in, it's in. The sergeant paused as if waiting for the full wisdom of his remark to sink into Boudie's brain. Then he shouted at the top of his voice, get ready, man, get ready, we'll soon be moving off and went out to the farm yard. Much work was yet to be done. Rifles had to be cleaned, odds and ends had to be collected from the straw. Here a knife and fork was found, there an entrenching tool handle, tin of bully beef, a towel and a cake of soap. A great amount of stuff is lost in large barns. Things disappear mysteriously, lost in the straw or stolen, perhaps by the children of the billet. Soldiers treating themselves to meals at village cafes often find themselves served up with bully beef and new guys. Outside in the farm yard, the fouls were standing on the smoking midden. Several of them scratching the dung with crooked claws in search of worms. In the midst of the assembly, a rooster, proud as Lucifer, was clucking amorously. Now and again he selected a gentle hen, walk leisurely around her and strove to attract her attention. The hen would fix a careless but coquettish look on him, stretch out a wing and stand on one leg for a moment. Afterward she would succumb and the triumphant sultan would stretch out his neck and crow a challenge to any cock that dared to listen. At the hour of nine, the battalion was ready to move off. The men were in good temper now and full of confidence. The everyday inspection of equipment had gone through. Rifles had been examined and the men's feet looked at. All were so cool that it was difficult to believe that they were going up to the trenches in which doubtless a number of them would lay down their lives. Most of the soldiers carried big French loaves on the back of their packs. The loaves had been holed through the middle, a string was placed in the hole and tied to the D's on the braces. Sergeant Snogger made a final inspection of his platoon. Have you everything he asked then without waiting for an answer you went on? Of course you should have everything. If you haven't, you haven't and that's all. Here, where the devil is Fitz, he asked. Forgot something and he's gone into the barn, Bub, replied. I see, I see, said Snogger, winking knowingly. If he has gone in too to help him look for what he's forgot, he's fairly dotty on the birds at Bub. But he's forgotten himself, Snogger remarked. If Captain Thorley finds a missing, he'll be for it. Ah, here he comes. Fitzgerald came out from the barn fully equipped and took his place in the ranks. You're just in time, Sid Snogger. Another minute late and he'd be for it. Fitzgerald laughed awkwardly and cast a sheepish glance back at the barn. Fifi was standing at the door and Bub vowed she was crying. That's your crying cause you're going off. Fitzgerald did not reply. The company marched off, the men singing at the tops of their voices. Spud hole as was his want leading the singing. He was a most vivacious youth full of high spirits and good humor, fond of his fun and his beer, and as vital at the end of a journey as at the beginning. Despite the distance which a regiment may travel, the soldier is as circumscribed in his area as the spoke of a limber wheel. The spaces confined in Spud hole, Bub, was no less a prisoner on the march than he had been in the guard room. Always the same mates in front, the same ruddy necks pressed sturdily back, the same red brick hands swinging across the khaki, the same entrenching tool handles waving backwards and forwards, the same round loaves tied to the packs, the same red-haired sergeant with the tops of his ears pressing tightly to his head, the same platoon commander who now and again stood out from the ranks and shouted the ancient words of command, get a step there, get a step, or cover up from the front or some such order. Once in every hour a whistle was blown and the whole battalion halted. The captain of a company would step out in front, halt, turn about and shout at the top of his voice, 10 minutes left to the road, fall out. The men would loosen their equipment and throw themselves down anywhere. Cigarettes would be lit, jokes passed and rations taken out of haversacks. Few would drink from their water bottles, sipping the water carefully for it was impossible to know when the next pump would be reached. The end of the fourth hour and the 16th fag, Spudhol computed the length of a march by the number of fags he smoked on the route. Fitzgerald, who had been silent for quite a long time, turned to Benner's and said, you know, I had a damn strange dream last night. I dreamt that I was up in the trenches fighting a big German who'd gotten my way somehow, and he ran his bayonet through my neck. You may get killed this time, said Benner's. No, not this time, Fitzgerald replied. I had decided by the cards last night. Red, I come back safe, black I don't. I said to myself, cut the cards and turned up the ace of hearts, a good omen. Here, old Fitz, muttered Spudhol, he's always pulling our legs. You don't understand, Spudhol, said Fitzgerald. I'm damn superstitious. Once I dreamt, one night I had a dream, Bob interrupted. Dreamt I was avan afeed at the SPO shop. Next day I was at the street corner of Dagoran for flaties. As I was there, a copper comes round the other, turning and flops into the banker's school. It was an arfabarney. They sets about him and knocks him down and I gets his hat and I kicks it along the street. Didn't Arf make a big hole in it either, but I was unlucky for two other coppers comes up and collars me. I was put in the reformatory. Sergeant Snogger detached himself from the ranks. Who's got a fag to give away? He asked as Fitzgerald came up. Here's one, said Fitzgerald, handing the sergeant a cigarette. Have you heard about the German, as was captured about here the other day, asked Snogger, marching by the side of Fitzgerald and lighting the fag. He was got sleepy in a ruined cottage near the cafe Bellevue, dressed in khaki with the badge of the ASC. Good God, I must have met that man, said Fitzgerald and told for the first time the story of his adventure on the night of his return from the cafe. He told the story in full, frequently interrupting himself and going back in the narrative to present a detail which he had forgotten. When he had finished, he looked at Snogger, who would listen very attentively and suddenly realized that the sergeant did not believe him. To be sure, Fitzgerald had wandered away a little from the absolute truth and the story of his own behavior had lost nothing in the telling. The sarcastic smile showed on Snogger's lips and Fitzgerald suddenly wished that the narrative had never been told. Damn good, we're in French Traybone, blurry fine story, that ASC bloke told me all about it. He was one of your own men, too, not an ASC at all. You don't know the feller. He's in another company, but he's always up to a joke. We planned it all out in the cafe after old Fatty Ad told that cock and bull story about the Germans breaking through. The ASC man was to wait for you on the road outside. Wasn't that a ticket spuddle? That was how we planned it, said Bob. Fitzgerald puffed his cigarette viciously and his face was crimson. For a moment he was silent. Then he spoke, turning to Bob. I cannot follow you, remarked Bob, he said in the slow voice. The crash of your falling H's drowns out all other sounds. You should take a lesson in pronunciation from Sergeant Snogger. If you listen to him when he orders the werewanks to wipe their wifles with oily wags, you can't fail to become a master of English as he has spoken. The sergeant blushed red as a beetroot. His imperfections and speaking were a great eyesore to the man and only once before had he been twitted about the matter. Then thick ears and black eyes were kept as mementos of the occasion. But now he could say nothing. He had given Fitzgerald's efficient provocation to warrant the jive. Without another word he went to the head of the platoon. Fitzgerald relapsed into silence and the march went on. At one o'clock came the order. Halt, left of the road, fall out, and the men sat down wearily. Their packs were very heavy and their weight seemed to increase at every yard. Justifying the soldier's prober and ounce at the start is a pound at the finish. Blimey, I don't know how we carry all this, your clobber about with us, sput hold muttered, leaning back on his pack and stretching out his legs to their fullest extent. Bolly clave helmet, trench helmet, gas helmet and cap, the enumerated bay net, Ipe, trenching tool, munition, under an 80 rounds, housewife, bull doll, ground sheet, mess tin, razor soap, comb, towel, paybook, clasp knife, iron rations, knife fork and spoon, a bottle of water, a tin of condensed milk, a tin of cafe au lait, chocolate, matches, and a box of facts. I'll carry your facts for you if you like, said bounty banners. Will you, muttered bum? I've lost things that way for now. There are a lot of things which you haven't mentioned yet, Fitzgerald remark. There is the first field dressing, the loaf, your overcoat and spare shirt, pants, socks, and vest. By the way, what are we stopping here for, he asks this. No sign of dinner as far as I can see. You're damned unlucky about dinner, said snogger, coming up that moment. There's no dinner, not yet for a while anyhow. We're going away ear by bus as soon as they come along. We're two ass bounty banners. Ohm snogger answered sarcastically. Ohm to the trenches, big doons up there, I suppose. It's like the blurry army, Bob remark, with a narrow finality. Turning us out to fight when we're just ready for a bit of grub, I never could hold with this ear a war. Look, there they come cursing. An omnibus came in sight, and the second, the third, coming from a village through which the battalion had just passed. As the vehicles drew up, the spirits of the soldiers seemed to rise. Jokes were passed with the drivers, mock inquiries were made, and just the answers were given. Is this the bus for one's worth? Not this one, next along this way. Number 32. Bears, please. Full inside, room for two on top, et cetera. The soldiers got onto the buses, which set off hurriedly when all were aboard. Nobody seemed to know where the battalion was bound for, but all anticipated big things ahead. The soldiers' hearts vibrated with a strange, expectant thrill. Something great was going to happen. Where? When? The men asked one another, but none could answer the questions. They stood on the threshold of great events. Children outside the door of a chamber of mysteries. End of chapter four, to the trenches. Chapter five 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 five, Marching. The good French girls will cook brown loaves above the oven fire. And while they do the daily toil of barn and bench and buyer, they'll think of hearty fellows gone and sigh for them in vain. The billet boys, the London lads, who won't return again. From soldier's songs. The men moved wearily, grunting and stumbling, their uniforms muddy and dirty, their rifles held at all angles. Now and again one would stand still for a moment, look round, readjust his equipment braces and continue marching. On all faces was a sluggish, indifferent look. The march from Y Farm had begun centuries ago and would never end. They kept walking and walking, growsily heedless of all that went on around them. Although midwinter, the day had seemed very close, the night seemed closer still. The men sweated as they marched. The silence was profound, hopeless and oppressive. The crunching boots were part of the eternal monotonous silence. When the column halted, the cessation of movement came like a blow and almost stunned them as they stood. Where was the battalion going to? Nobody seemed to know and nobody cared now. Weirdness had killed the men's curiosity. Sergeant Snager came along on the right flank of his company during one of these stoppages. His feet moving ponderously, his back crooked like an old man's. What's up, somebody asked. Field to your left or you'll be damned unlucky, said. Reinforcements. His voice was almost incoherent and his tones were charged with impatience. Dark bulks took shape on their right, creaked and thundered for a moment and vanished. Reinforcements, someone muttered and added on buses, London buses. Same as we came on to other day and we'd been marching near there all the time since then. Again the living body crawled forward step by step. Bub went forward on Fitzgerald arm, fell asleep but still continued his march. Fitz could feel Bub's hand on his own. It was soft and warm but very heavy. He tried to shake it off but it clung tighter. Why was it done to him? The Irishman was not conscious of having done any wrong but to press his hand with pinchers and crush him down with a steam hammer. It was too much. He was falling through space with a monstrous load on his shoulders. Down, down, ever so far down and no bottom. The fall was endless. A branch of a tree stretched out toward his hand and he strove to grip it. It evaded him and he still fell. Fitzgerald suddenly bounced into conscious life to see figures moving forward right in front of him. Then he knew that he was still marching, marching up to battle. What battle he asked himself and then became annoyed at his own curiosity. I don't know, he muttered. What the hell does it matter anyway? Are you sleepy asked Bub who had woke up? No, the Irishman answered unconcernly. Please take your hand away. Take it away at once. Bub paid no heed but his hand grip tighter still. Fitz tried to shake it off but the effort was monstrously futile. But what did it matter? He was living in a confused and muddled nightmare and his mind was a great vacant chamber filled with spectres more impalpable than air. The light somebody said, look at them. The star shells seemed very near, blazing in the heavens, green, red, and white. The green was restful to look upon. The white hard and cold, the red star shells were lured wounds dripping with blood. Fitz shuttered and his eyes saw the ground again. On the left of the road fall out. The command was given in a weak voice and the men dropped down on the withered grass. It was now almost dawn. The ambulance wagons were tearing along the road and the wound it could be heard groaning and cursing as the vehicles were jolted from side to side on the cobbled way. The battle to which the London boys were going was at an end now. The soldiers were dimly conscious of this but all were indifferent to the result of the conflict. Most of the men were already asleep. The cold breeze was blowing and high up in the air the star shells were still blazing merrily over the firing line. Soldiers came tottering back from battle and platoons and squads and pairs. They were all wore, worn and dejected. They straggled by, their heads sunk on their breasts. Now and again the men spoke to them but they seldom made answer and when they replied their answers were ever the same. The Bosch attack they said, Christ he didn't have send some stuff across before he came over. We chased him back but it was a fight. Fitzgerald lay close to the earth and he could smell the moist clay and dead grass. It was very cold too. He turned over on his side and stretched out his legs to their full extent. It was now on the fringe of dawn. The earth grew pale and objects in the near distance took on definite form. Fitzgerald woke with a start and got to his feet. He had been asleep for a few moments only. His mates were buckling their belts and grumbling at their lot. What was going to happen now? Going back again on all that damn trek for nothing not one of them could march another 100 yards. We're not going far back Snogger said just a mile or so and we'll build it out of village. Then you'll all have a kip. That's if you're lucky. And the attack Fitz asked was it beaten off? Yes said the sergeants. The Germans got as far as our trench and there they stopped some of them for good. We're lucky we weren't in it I'm thinking. Come on boys and pull yourselves together each other. We've got to get out of this before it gets too near. It'll soon be broad daylight and we'll be damned unlucky if we're here then. Wounded men who were able to walk straggled along the road. When they fell they fell silently and got up mutely. But many fell and did not rise. The men were well on their way when dawn broke and the rim of the sky flushed crimson. Dead mules lay on the cobbled way torn with ghastly wounds. Drivers and khaki helplessly impotent lay huddled amidst their broken limbers. The roadway was gutted by shells and the poplars that lined the path were scarred and peeled by many a projectile. Behind the shells were bursting and the sound of explosions quivered through the crisp clear air. The men looked back they could see the hills behind rising out of the dawn. The white mists in the Suave Valley, the Valley of Death, the Cabaret Rouge, the Inn on the Soucher's Road, and Soucher's itself was now a heap of powdered dust. War had rent and riven many a village, but Soucher's had powdered the dust. Not the fragment of a single wall remained standing and not a whole brick remained of the village of Soucher's. Higher than any of the hills of Lorette rose the pimple, the highest peak in the district. From the top, mile after mile of the surrounding country was visible. Woods, roads, towns, villages, and canals, the French were supposed to be holding it. Sergeant Snager, who had been marching in front, came back and kept in step with bowdy-benners and his mates. The French lost the pimple last night, he said. There were 2,000 old in the place and the Germans turned every damn gun they'd got on it, blew it to blazes they did. Not one Frenchman came back and they say none was taken prisoners. They were damned unlucky. Half an hour's march brought the men to a little village, broken, ruined, untenanted. There they halted while the officers inspected the cellars seeking shelter where their men might sleep. Snager's friends were lucky and found a cellar, the floor of which was littered with hay. In here they lay down, but not before they let a candle to frighten the rats away. Holding himself erect, Snager tried to unbuckle his equipment, but his fingers were unable to perform the task. Damn it, he shouted in a petulant voice and collapsed in a heap on the straw where he lay crumpled up. He might have been hit in the head by a bullet so sudden was his fall. The men lay near the bottom of the cellar stairs. The apartment lost itself in unfathomable corners and there the rats were scurrying backwards and forwards. Body was just dropping off to sleep when a horse's epulchral yell echoed through the cellar and a strange unearthly figure rushed into the circle of candlelight, waving his arms in the air and shouting in a strange incoherent voice. The men were looking at a French soldier. He came to a halt at the foot of the stairs as eyelids slowly opened, the eyes took in the apartment, the dim candle, the forms lying on the floor. Who are you? he asked in a steady voice. Then as if collecting his scattered wits he muttered, you were billeted here. I've just come down from the pimple. I'm the only man left. Who is a drop of water to spare? Thus did Fitzgerald who woke up translate the man's remarks. Bowdy gave him a drink of water. He lay down again in one of the men's overcoats and was soon asleep. As the men dozed off one by one, the rats drew closer, peering curiously out from the darkness of the remote corners of the cellar. Fitzgerald fell asleep to awake suddenly with a start. The rat had run over his face. The damn pest he muttered getting to his feet. I can't stand them. I'll get outside and sleep on the ground. God, it's strange how a little thing like a rat disturbs me, he muttered. He went outside, lay down on the cobbles and slept the sleep of a weary man. In the evening the battalion marched away from the neighborhood of Suchet and entered the loose salient just in time for the Christmas season. End of chapter five. Chapter six 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 six, Christmas Eve. The sergeant's water bottle's full, but it's strange to see the sergeant on the earhold for some water first tea. But ain't it strange when night is on and we are out of sight, the sergeant takes his bottle out and swigs from it all night. Cold water, cold water, cold, cold, cold, cold water from the lost rum ration. It was about seven o'clock in the evening and an unusual silence brooded over the loose salient. In the trenches, the silence always broods. The soldiers not knowing what the moment may bring forth are uneasy and the eternal hidden menace of the unknown is intensified by the stillness. The evening was intensely dark, black impenetrable shadows bulked in the trenches and became the color of the parapet, carotos and bay. Objects quite near at hand took on strange fantastic shapes and look like men lying asleep on the fire steps. Only a closer examination would show that the phantoms were sandbags or ammunition boxes. Many of the boys were smoking. The lighted cigarettes glowed like rubies set in an illimitable spread of ebony. It was raining, a soft, almost caressing rain dropped sleekly and helplessly down on the firing line. In this manner, it had been falling for hours. The trenches were filled to the fire step with slush and muck. The duckboards were afloat and men changing their position in the trench clamored out over the top and walked along the reverse slope of the parapet. Now and again, a wayfarer stuck in the clean quicksand of the trench floor only to free himself when he seceded and climbed me out of his Wellington boots. Fitzgerald sat down on the fire step and sank into the soft mud. So complete was the stillness that he could distinctly hear all the varied sounds of the night mingling together in a long drawn slumberous murmur. The far off death well above a heavy shell, the soft quivering croon of the damp wind. The slough of a boot as a soldier walked along the trench. The vague murmurings from a nearby dugout, the innervating sizzle of falling rain and the varied indefinable night movements of nature blended sleepily together in a slumber that made for nightmares and fever dreams. Fitzgerald dozed off only to wake in an instant by hearing voices speaking very close to him. Spud hole, my rifle is full of dirt. Half a sandbag of chalk has gone down the barrels of the voice of bowdy-benners. Mine is full of muck too, said Spud hole. There was an indifference in his tones. He seemed to have lost all interest in his best friend, his Ipe. I don't give a damn, he muttered. A knife's only made to be clean in this year war as far as I can see. When is the rum coming up, bowdy inquired. Probably we'll get none tonight. Sub said, Bob, round the next bay in the dugout. Well, I'm off, said bowdy. I'm half-frozen, I'm for a good tot if it's going. By the way, he asked, as if it had suddenly occurred to him. How many of our fellows were blown up by the mine this morning? Seven or eight, said Bob, or maybe more. And to think that tonight's Christmas Eve, said Benners, as if the conversation had forcibly reminded him of the fact. The two men clamored over the top and made their way towards the dugout from which the rum was issued. Fitzgerald got up and followed. As he crawled over the sandbags, a star shell rose in the darkness and lit the scene of war. The country showed wet and livid. The barbed wire entanglements wound crookedly along the levels. The wire stretching out, waiting for their prey with threatening barbs. In the brooding silence and the locality of war, hate and vengeance persisted, and were well in keeping with an ominous night. In here it seemed they found their most direct expression. Fitzgerald looked around and queer fragmentary thoughts rioted in his head. He remembered a verse of a song which he had once heard and repeated it aloud. Here comes I, Jack Straw, such a man you never saw. Through a rock, through a reel, through an old spinning wheel. Through a millhopper, through a bag of pepper, sheep shanks, chicken bone. Give me a kiss or leave me alone. What has put that nonsense into your mind, he asked himself. Probably it is because it is part of a Christmas Carol, and this is Christmas Eve. 2000 years gone by and the message of the Prince of Peace not made manifest yet. Well, I wonder if the rum is waiting. He made his way into the trench again and came inside of the dugout with its candle lit in the niche of the chalky wall and its huddled occupants lying on the floor. A few no doubt were asleep. Two or three were sitting their backs against the chalk, their heads bent down almost between their knees. All were dressed in sheepskin coats, khaki trousers and high boots, wore full equipment, their cartridge pouches being well stocked with ammunition. Although a bank of earth was heaped up on the doorstep, did not prevent the water from dripping inside. The floor of the dugout was as mucky as the floor of the trench. Stooping down Fitzgerald crawled in through the narrow door of the shelter. Bub was already inside, scraping the muck from his boots with a clasp knife. Behind him, with his back against the wall, sat bounty banners cutting a lump of cheese into small portions. The cheese was a big item of the Christmas Eve rations. He was sitting down now as head thrust forward as big hands busy with the cheese as Fitzgerald entered he looked up, then glanced round the dugout. Not much grub tonight, boys, he said. Four biscuits, a half tin, a bully, and a piece of cheese for each man. And the rom-mast Bub were stalling every man with a question, it's here all right, said bounty. They stared open mouth for a full second, then a roar of delight echoed through the dugout and the sleepers awoke. Bub rose to his feet, whirled his clasp knife, round his hand, endeavored to dance a jig, and only stopped when his head came in forcible contact with a roof for the third time. Fitzgerald chuckled, a glow of satisfaction lit up his handsome face, and his eyes rested lovingly on the sandbag which stood in an angle of the wall near the door. Then he lay back, rested his head on the wall and stared at the candle. In that position he looked a very charming boy and he knew it. In civil life he must have been very fond of society, the company of notable people, and above all of pretty women. Again he looked at the sandbag in the angle of the wall, but his eyes were not the only ones fixed on that object. And no wonder the sandbag contained the rum jar. Well, what about a tot, asked Bub? Buddy rose and took the sandbag into the middle of the room where he uncovered the precious jar and filled a mess tin of liquor. He handed the tin to Bub. Churro said the cockney and drank. He passed the tin round and wiped his lips. There's some guts in rum, he muttered, and his voice was full of emotion. God had don't half warn you up the inside of a bloke. Now what about a Christmas dinner? He continued. Bully ain't what one would call tray's bone, is it? Christmas dinner or bully beef? Go blimey, that's no blurry good. It's a funny thing that a full belly always is associated with happiness that fits Gerald, shaking his head and laughing loudly. Rum went easily to his head. The man gets married, he feeds well, and if a child is born to him, he stuffs himself with vines. So is his belly. Always had Bub reaching a second time for the mess tin. Doesn't matter what Fitz wants, remarked about he bent her, seeking his chin into the collar of his sheepskin coat. What I say is this, we must have a Christmas dinner tomorrow. How can we get one, Fitz inquired. Easy enough, that said Bully. I know an old woman of the cafe, Cologne Fee. A parcel of good things could be got there for a few francs. I could go down to Lake Brevy in an hour. But they're shelling the road, Fitz Gerald remarked. Blowing holes in it, and the houses are flying about the streets. Not only that, but you're not supposed to go away from here. And again, all shops are closed at nine o'clock. It's well past eight now. But that doesn't matter, said Bully. The woman of the cafe is a great friend of mine. You're a sly old dog, Bully, said Bub. No one would think that to look at you. Bully went red in the face and proceeded to buckle his equipment. His hands trembling a little over the job. We'll have a collection anyhow, said Fitz Gerald, and he flung a coin into his mess tin. Several coins followed, and in the end, the magnificent sum of 12 francs, 50, was collected. Bully put the money in his pocket, took a last long-drawn pull at a cigarette, and went outside. I'll be back again in no time, where his final words. The men turned their attention to the rum jar again. Tongues were loosened, and stories of past Christmases went round the dugout. Bub, strong on the traditions of the regiment, told the story of the Brigadier's kit inspection at St. Albans, the Christmas previous. The old brig come round when he was inspecting us, and he looked at my pack, said Bub. That's the neatest pack I've seen in the whole battalion, said the brig. Have your guard everything that's laid down in orders in that your pack, he says to me. Everything I says. I know that the contents of a nice pack is always nice and clean, he says. I'll have a look at your pack. Take it off and take out everything and lay them out, he says. Core blimey, I did what you ordered me in. My bloomin' pack was full of straws, to as lighter to carry than the ordinary caboose. 14 days, butthole, Bub concluded. Fitzgerald was singing a song and wavy and empty mess tin over his head. The song was one of his own making, a Rabilasian production with a snappy chorus. All joined in and drank and turned. Suddenly they heard the dull rumble of approaching shells and the loud explosions of the missiles in the fields outside. Fitzgerald lit a cigarette and finished a chorus. They're strafing again, he said. The damned pastime will never come to an end. End of chapter six. Chapter seven 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 seven, Christmas Day. Blurry, well-freezin' and cold as sin, Christmas day in the morning. The big guns walk on the safe herein, Christmas day in the morning. Used to have fingers and used to have toes, used to have ears as well as the nose. But now I don't think of any of those, Christmas day in the morning. Wish we were safe in a stall today, Christmas day in the morning. Watchin' the cattle munchin' their hay, Christmas day in the morning. The Prince of Peace was born, were told, snuggin' a stall in the days of old. Lord, look down on us here in the cold, on Christmas day in the morning. From carols of goodwill. The dawn was at hand, the dawn of Christmas day. Fitzgerald was standing on the far step, looking over no man's land toward the enemy trenches. It was his hour on century go. The rain was still fallin', and his hands and feet felt very cold. But he was powerless to restore any warmth to his body by moving about. To leave the far step for a moment was dangerous. He knew that if he stuck in the mud of the trench, he could not extricate himself, for he felt utterly worn out. He had been warm enough when he went on watch, owing to the rum which he had drunk. But now he was shivering as if his whole being had been stricken with augu. He tried to warm his legs by striking one against the other, but his feet felt so heavy that he desisted after two or three ineffectual endeavors to release them from the mud. The slightest movement was a monstrous futility, and now it had become so difficult to move he did not want to remain still. And he had the greatest desire in the world to be free-footed in doing something. The Germans were shelling the sector on the right, and the chill-wet morning was lit up by the lurid flashes of bursting explosives. The air was full of the rumbling and crashing of the conflict. Shells sped across the trench, couriering toward some distant objective, probably the village where old Baudi was routing out the essentials for a Christmas dinner. And Baudi had not returned yet, some nine hours had gone by since he departed on his mission. Probably he has gotten blown to bits, fits Gerald muttered. Poor old Baudi. Then he passed without further thought of Baudi to memories which came into his head at random. He thought of his home, away at the little Glen and Galway of the neighbors there of Dolty Fotten, the great gambler who always won when he turned his coat outside in, of Eamon Hoda, who got drunk at Glen and Faire and lost his clothes somewhere at night. In the morning he came across the hills in a red flannel petticoat of Patty Brogan and cleared out the same fair with a stone in the foot of a woman's stocking. I wish I was in Glen and Galway now, fits Gerald said, the good turf fire of bitterness up and the neighbors coming in for the night's raking. Then all these memories and desires floated together and jumbled themselves up into his head and he fell asleep. He was awakened by a feeling that everything was not as it should be for the unusual there was only one place to look out on his front. In his eyes were already fixed on the gray formless level which lay between his trench and the enemies. Nothing changed there. Everything just then fits Gerald saw a huge bulk take shape on his right front, 20 yards from the trench and 50 yards away from the spot where he stood. The bulk rose upright like a gigantic monster of some pre-atomite age. Pause for a second as if considering something. Then it burst in twine and fits Gerald flopped down into the monkey trench, half blinded and deafened by the flash and thunder of the exploding mine. The earth had vomited its own trails out. The million rocks ride it through the air and ricochet it off the parapet. The dawn was thick with flying rubbish, the greater part of which seemed to be falling into the trench dropping with a sickly splosh into the muck. The world was falling down around the ears of the Irishman. Out in man the mine crater, the order came along the trench like a half strangle whisper. Fitzgerald rose from the muck and sputtered the message along to the next bay, then gripped his rifle and clamored up and across the parapet. Most of the men were already out rushing toward the center of the mine. Fitzgerald had a vivid impression of flying figures and sheepskin coats of rifles in air, of bursting shells, of men stumbling, falling and rising, of horse-voiced boats and imprecations of queries and answers. Not our mind, is it? I thought we were too far apart. Are we getting into the blurry hole for the gas clears away? Were a few of the remarks which came to his ears. A corporal halted near him and shouted something about the risk the men were running. We'll be poisoned by the fumes in the crater, he said. We're coming across too soon, far too soon, he muttered. Far too blurry soon. But no one paid any heed. To stop on the open was dangerous and the Germans were out already. They could be seen, dark figures breaking through the enemy's barbed wire entanglements. Presently they would be engaged with the British in a hand-to-hand encounter for the possession of the crater. Fitzgerald reached the rim of the hole and stood there for a moment, looking down. Heavy coils of thick smoke wound snaked like along the bottom. Where the black earth was illumined by ghastly phosphorescent lights, they trailed up the sides in thin sluggish streaks. A few soldiers were already going down into the place and halting from time to time, taking stock of the scene before them. All were sputtering and coughing and a few had pulled their gas masks down over their heads and faces. This is no blurry beam fast, I can tell here. Sput, oh mutter, as he tried to clamor back, crawling with difficulty almost knee-deep in the rubble. As he moved the clay shot away from beneath them and he found himself in the unenviable plight of being able to advance a foot, only to find himself slipping back a yard. The enemy's shell with unceasing persistency and men were getting struck on the rim of the crater. Anywhere was better than where they were standing. They flopped into the crater, making futile efforts to save themselves from rolling to the bottom by clawing out the clay of the sides. Once down, however, they found to their relief that breathing was easier than they had anticipated. What now, somebody inquired, looking vaguely around. What indeed, what's to be done? We'll get killed like blurry rats down here. The Alumungs are coming over in droves. Better to fight them on top than to let them stone us to death down here. Sergeant Snogger in a sheepskin coat, which was freshly ripped across the shoulder by a bullet or a shell splinter, rolled down the side of the crater and landed at the bottom. In a moment he was on his feet. Up to the top, boys, he cried. Don't stand here arguing like fishwives, up to the top, or you'll be damned unlucky. Immediately the men were crawling up like ants, but with extreme difficulty, their heavy boots, their equipments and rifles impeded their movements. Every man was a khaki-clad sisyphus, battling against an incline, such as the patient sisyphus never experienced. The men grunting and swearing seemed to be making no headway. The scaling of the crater side, about 60 feet in depth, was a Herculean task for men, strong wind and limb. For them it was a task of despair. We'll never get there, but grunted. Then as I saw at the top, go, blammy, muttered, there they come. A man dressed in German uniform stood on the rim of the crater, a rifle in his hand, and looked down. As the soldiers watched, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it at the crush in the bottom of the crater. The movement was his last. Boudie Benner's arrived at that moment, dressed in full marching order, his rifle in his hand, and the bayonet fixed. The point was delivered at the shoulder in Benner's long arms, but all the zeal of a strong body into the movement. The German came clean over the rim of the crater and rolled down to the bottom, clung at the air with frenzied fingers. Boudie lay down at the top, and his rifle became active, round after round, sped across the open towards the foe, who were now coming up in bulk, getting very close to the crater. Keep it up, Boudie, cried Snogger. Are they near? They're not far away, Boudie said, without looking around. Devil, blow me blind. They'll be here in a second if you don't come up and give me a hand. Hot, they've stopped now. A shell has caught a couple. All right, Boudie, we're here. The sergeant shouted, reaching the summit. The main body of Germans, advancing in open order, were still some 50 yards away. As far as could be ascertained at the moment, the delay they should have been across the open three minutes ago was due to a heavy curtain fire, which had greeted them just as they came out of the trenches. The fire caught them at the barbed wire entanglements, concussion shells tore up the wires and swept them around the bodies of the attackers, and the impartial shrapnel rang viciously down on the huddled heaps of wounded. The quick were advancing. It dispirited a party of men in open order, glad to get away from their own trenches, which were suffering cruel chest diesmen. Some were willing to fight even yet. Five or six had formed themselves down on the ground and trained the rifles on the British positions, opening a wild, erratic fire of slight intensity. Cold hands never hold a rifle steady on a Christmas morning. The men in the crater lay down behind the parapet, which the exploding man had formed in open fire with deadly effect. That'll knock the blurry stuffing out of them, sput all remark. There they come now, their hands up in the air. It was even as he remarked. The advancing line of Germans put their timorous hands over their heads and stepped diffidently towards the mine. Kamarad, Kamarad they whine, their arms shaking as if stricken with palsy. The snipers threw their rifles away and joined in with their mates. All were sick of the job. Take them prisoners, said Sergeant Snogger. There's nothing else to be done. An hour later when the wounded had been carried back to the trench and the prisoners were marched off to the village at the rear, the victors were left to themselves in undisputed possession of their hard-won crater. The Christmas morning scene was one never to be forgotten. The rain swept crater, the crumbling clay, the fumes of gunpowder, the dead bodies, the monotonous hum of ragtime choruses, the shells bursting across the top, the dirty rifles and the dirtier men who endeavor to clean them. Bouty-benners was there with a full pack and a bulging haversack. Fitzgerald and Spuddle were deep in a discussion on some nonsensical subject. But the discussion served its object. It brought the men's minds away from the stark reality of their surroundings. Snogger, sitting on his haunches, was giving details of the fight to his platoon commander, Captain Thorley. Bub drew up towards Bouty and asked him for a drink from his water bottle. Benners handed it to him with a solemn look, but he'll drink. Good asked Bouty, wonderful stuff, said Spuddle. Hand it round, said Bouty. All drank from the water bottle in turn and each man winked knowingly when he drank. None of the men had expected any rum that morning. The rations of the night before had been so short. The limbers met with a mishap when coming up to the valet dump. Of course, all were aware that Bouty had come into possession of the rum by illegitimate means. However, no inquiries were made. Now, what about a smoke before dinner? Bub remarked, fixing a knowing glance on Bouty. As anybody got a fag despair, many a poor bloke has gone west since I had my last fag. Fitzgerald fumbled about in his haversack and found a box, a little tin box, lying snug and dry amidst a crush of papers and broken biscuits. Some 50 cigarettes were enclosed within. He handed them around. They lit them up. The drink and the smoke exercised a cheering influence upon the men. A look of pleasure stole over every face and the men burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter when Spuddle, standing on a platform of clay, placed his arms akimbo and wished all a merry Christmas. If we have to spend a day here, we must spend it here. We must stick it here and there's no more to be said he left. We'll get relieved tonight, he added. That's if we're lucky. Suppose we build a dugout and light a fire, said Snogger. There's Arfa dozen poles standing over the top. We've got waterproof sheets, trenching tools and good chalk to work in. Drawing their tools from their equipment, the men set to labor with zeal, hollowed out a shelter in the chalk, roofed it over and lit a fire. The ladder was the most difficult feat and several and trenching tool handles had to be cut into thin spales and placed over the flames before the fire burned properly. The devil blow me blind, if that's not very clever, said Bowdy Beners, when the flames were dancing merrily against the wall of the dugout. It almost puts me in mind a Christmas away and blighty. Now we'll see what we've in hand for a meal for our Christmas dinner. I'll look in my pack. He opened his pack and took out the treasures which he piled against the wall of the dugout. The pack contained three large loaves, cut into thick chunks, eight tins of sardines, a tin of condensed café au lait, two bottles of champagne, and several slabs of Menier's chocolate. The bulging haversack was another treasure wallet, contained apples and pastry and abundance, also a tin of lard, which would presently be used for frying bully beef. During all the morning, the artillery fire had not wholly slackened, but now a quiet moment held the line. Dinner was prepared. First the men made tea using the water from their water bottles and boiling it in mess tins over the fire. Then they cooked their bully beef on the mess tin lids and cut the bread into nice thin slices. It was Fitzgerald who proposed that all slices should be thin and none gain sight as whim. The first course consisted of sardines and bread, the second course of bread and fried bully. Tea was served with every course. Followed pastry for dessert and fruit was served out in dainty portions. They brought the meal to an end by drinking French wine and English rum and lighting up their cigarettes. During the meal, the platoon commander was deep in talk with Sergeant Snogger and when the Christmas dinner was over, he came forward and spoke to the party. My boys, he said, this I suppose is the most interesting Christmas you've ever spent. Bub, too interesting for me, sir. Platoon commander, yes, I suppose it is, but I hope that neither you nor any of us will spend Christmas under such conditions again. Such things must be at times, I suppose, and seeing that it came to our turn, I must admit that we did as well as any platoon in the British Army. You stuck to your posts like bricks and reaped honors from a fight where the odds were very much against us. Rifleman Benners, at a critical moment, showed great resource in putting one of the enemy out of action. For this we must thank him. Platoon, here, here, good old Bowdy. Et cetera. Platoon commander, I haven't much further to say except that I'm going to recommend Rifleman Benners for the DCM. I'm not gonna make any inquiries as to where he spent last night and the early hours of this morning. As all you men assert that he was in the trenches, I'll take your word for it. I'm not going to inquire where the champagne, bread, and other things came from. But if I may, I'll say that I've never, in all my life, enjoyed a meal half as well as I enjoyed my Christmas dinner in the lowest saloon. That night the Irish were relieved. A month later the DCM was given to Bowdy Benners. End of chapter seven.