III—STORY OF AYLING OF THE MACHINE GUNNERS
As already recorded, we took over these trenches a few days ago, in the small hours of the morning. In the ordinary course of events, relieving parties are usually able to march up under cover of darkness to the reserve trench, half a mile in rear of the firing line, and so proceed to their appointed place. But on this occasion the German artillery happened to be "distributing coal" among the billets behind. This made it necessary to approach our new home by tortuous ways, and to take to subterranean courses at a very early stage of the journey. For more than two hours we toiled along a trench just wide enough to permit a man to wear his equipment, sometimes bent double to avoid the bullets of snipers, sometimes knee-deep in glutinous mud.
Ayling, leading a machine-gun section who were burdened with their weapons and seven thousand rounds of ammunition, mopped his steaming brow and inquired of his guide how much farther there was to go.
"Abart two miles, sir," replied the youth with gloomy satisfaction. He was a private of the Cockney regiment whom we were relieving; and after the manner of his kind, would infinitely have preferred to conduct us down half a mile of a shell-swept road, leading straight to the heart of things, than waste time upon an uninteresting but safe détour.
At this Ayling's Number One, who was carrying a machine-gun tripod weighing forty-eight pounds, said something—something distressingly audible—and groaned deeply.
"If we'd come the way I wanted," continued the guide, much pleased with the effect of his words upon his audience, "we'd a' been there by now. But the Adjutant, 'e says to me——"
"If we had come the way you wanted," interrupted Ayling brutally, "we should probably have been in Kingdom Come by now. Hurry up!" Ayling, in common with the rest of those present, was not in the best of tempers, and the loquacity of the guide had been jarring upon him for some time.
The Cockney private, with the air of a deeply-wronged man, sulkily led on, followed by the dolorous procession. Another ten minutes' labored progress brought them to a place where several ways met.
"This is the beginning of the reserve trenches, sir," announced the guide. "If we'd come the way I——"
"Lead on!" said Ayling, and his perspiring followers murmured threatening applause.
The guide, now in his own territory, selected the muddiest opening and plunged down it. For two hundred yards or so he continued serenely upon his way, with the air of one exhibiting the metropolis to a party of country cousins. He passed numerous turnings. Then, once or twice, he paused irresolutely; then moved on. Finally he halted, and proceeded to climb out of the trench.
"What are you doing?" demanded Ayling suspiciously.
"We got to cut across the open 'ere, sir," said the youth glibly. "Trench don't go no farther. Keep as low as you can."
With resigned grunts the weary pilgrims hoisted themselves and their numerous burdens out of their slimy thoroughfare, and followed their conductor through the long grass in single file, feeling painfully conspicuous against the whitening sky. Presently they discovered, and descended into, another trench—all but the man with the tripod, who descended into it before he discovered it—and proceeded upon their dolorous way. Once more the guide, who had been refreshingly but ominously silent for some time, paused irresolutely.
"Look here, my man," said Ayling, "do you, or do you not, know where you are?"
The paragon replied hesitatingly:—
"Well, sir, if we'd come by the way I——"
Ayling took a deep breath, and though conscious of the presence of formidable competitors, was about to make the best of an officer's vocabulary, when a kilted figure loomed out of the darkness.
"Hallo! Who are you?" inquired Ayling.
"This iss the Camerons' trenches, sirr," replied a polite West Highland voice. "What trenches wass you seeking?"
Ayeling told him.
"They are behind you, sirr."
"I was just goin' to say, sir," chanted the guide, making one last effort to redeem his prestige, "as 'ow——"
"Party," commanded Ayling, "about turn!"
Having received details of the route from the friendly Cameron, he scrambled out of the trench and crawled along to what was now the head of the procession. A plaintive voice followed him.
"Beg pardon, sir, where shall I go now?"
Ayling answered the question explicitly, and moved off, feeling much better. The late conductor of the party trailed disconsolately in the rear.
"I should like to know wot I'm 'ere for," he murmured indignantly.
He got his answer, like a lightning-flash.
"For tae carry this," said the man with the tripod, turning round. "Here, caatch!"