Single file we zigzag down the communication trenches. The O.P. is a farmhouse, or was, in which the sappers have built a brick chamber just under the roof. You climb up a ladder to get to it, and find room for just the signaller and ourselves, with a long slit through which you can watch Germany. The Hun knows it’s an O.P. He’s got a similar one facing you, only built of concrete, and if you don’t shell him he won’t shell you. But if you do shell him with a futile 18-pounder H.E. or so, he turns on a section of five-nines, and the best thing you can do is to report that it’s “snowing,” clear out quick and look for a new O.P. The chances are you won’t find one that’s any good.
It’s frightfully dark; can’t see a yard. If you want to smoke, for any sake don’t strike matches. Use a tinder. See that sort of extra dark lump, just behind those two trees—all right, poles if you like. They were trees!—Well, that’s where they’re going over.
Not a sound anywhere except the rumble of a battle away up north. Hell of a strafe apparently.
Hullo! What’s the light behind that bank of trees?—Fritz started a fire in his own lines? Doesn’t look like a fire.—It’s the moon coming up, moon, moon, so brightly shining. Pity old Pelissier turned up his toes.—Ever heard the second verse of “Au Clair de la Lune?”
(singing)
Au clair de la lune
Pierrot répondit,
“Je n’ai pas de plume,
Je suis dans mon lit.”
“Si tu es donc couché,”