I
The two snipers of the Royal Midlandshires, the shooter and the observer, were comfortably in their post. The shooter was longing for a cigarette, which regulations forbade lest the enemy—two hundred yards away—should see the smoke issuing from the concealed loophole; but the observer, Private William Entworth, was studying the parapet opposite.
Suddenly he spoke:
“Line of water-tower. Red sandbag. Left. Two feet.”
Saunders’ eyes picked up the water-tower in the distance, ranged to the parapet, found the red sandbag, then swung to the left of it. Yes, something moving. He cuddled the stock of his rifle, and brought the pointer in the telescope to bear. Then slowly he began to squeeze the trigger.
“Don’t shoot.”
Entworth was only just in time.
“Why not, ole son?”
“It’s only a cat.”
“A ’Un cat! ’Ere goes.”
“Come off it. If you get shootin’ cats outer this post Mr. Nowell’ll—— Besides, it’s rather a nice-lookin’ cat. Tortoiseshell colour. We ’ad one in Ferrers Street ’e reminds me of.... There, ’e’s climbin’ up on the bloomin’ parados, curlin’ round and goin’ to sleep just as if there wasn’t no war. Shall I enter ’im?”
“Wot’s the good?”
“Dunno. Shows we was awake. ‘Time 11.25 Ac. Emma. Cat (tortoiseshell) at K 22.C.35.45. Action taken: None.’”
So wrote Private Entworth with laborious pencil. As he finished a voice sounded outside.
“Who’s in there?”
“Private Entworth. Private Saunders.”
“Shut the loopholes. I am coming in.”
“Well, seen anything?” questioned Mr. Nowell, the Sniping and Intelligence Officer of the Battalion.
“They’ve been working on the post at K.22.D.85.60.”
“Seen any Huns?”
“Only a cat, sir. I’ve entered it in the log-book. It’s sunning itself on the parados now, sir. Line of water-tower. Red sandbag.”
“Yes, I have it,” said Nowell, who had taken the telescope.
“Shall I shoot ’im, sir?”
“Why should you?”
“’E probably kills rats and makes life brighter-like for the ’Un, sir, by so doing. There’s a glut o’ rats on this sector, sir.”
“The cat looks very comfortable. No, don’t shoot, Saunders. Entworth, give me that log-book.”
The officer turned over the pages.
“I wonder if anyone has ever seen that cat before? Hullo, yes. Private Scroggins and Lance-Corporal Tew two days ago in the afternoon. Here’s the entry: ‘3.4 pip emma K.22.C.35.40. Cat on parados.’”
Nowell’s eyes showed a gleam of interest.
“Note down whenever you see that cat,” said he.
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep a bright look-out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once more the loopholes were shut, and Nowell, lifting the curtain at the back of the Post which prevented the light shining through, went out.
His steps died away along the trench-boards.
“Think we’ll see it in ‘Comic Cuts’” (the universal B.E.F. name for the Corps Intelligence Summary). “‘At K.22.C.35.45, a tortoiseshell-coloured he-cat.’ I don’t think!” said Saunders.
“Shouldn’t wonder. The cove wot writes out ‘Comic Cuts’ must ’a bin wounded in the ’ed early on. Sort o’ balmy ’e is.”