"'Call the Sergeant-Major on your way back, and tell him I've gone down to the sap-head. He can bring the wiring party along right away. It's nearly three o'clock. Send a runner to tell the officer on duty I'm going out myself with this party. You might just remind the Sergeant-Major I want two stretcher-bearers at the sap-head. Tell 'em to keep out of sight till the others are out over the parapet. Right! Messages will go to Mr. ——, of course, while I'm out.'
"Brother Boche may remain quiet. Three o'clock is a good quiet time. And there is no moon. But, Brother Boche being dead quiet just now, may conceivably have patrols out there in No Man's Land. They may carry valuable information quickly to his line, and two or three machine-guns may presently open up on the O.C. Company and his wiring party, who, again, may be exposed by means of flare lights from the other side. One hopes not. Meanwhile, after a glance round, the O.C. picks up his mud-caked leather mitts, settles the revolver pouch on his belt, blows out the guttering candle, feels his way out past the dripping waterproof sheet into the black trench, and leaves the dug-out to his sleeping brother officer (who was on deck from 10 to 1, and will be out again an hour before dawn) and the rats.
"Theoretically, this O.C. Company may be himself as much in need of sleep as anyone in the trench. Actually, however, apart from his needs, he is personally responsible for whatever may happen in quite a long stretch of dark, mysterious trench: of trench which in one moment may be converted by the ingenious Boche into a raging hell of paralysing gas and smoke, of lurid flame and rending explosion. German officers seated in artillery dug-outs a mile or so away across the far side of No Man's Land may bring about that transformation in one moment. They did it less than a week ago, though, by reason of unceasing watchfulness on this side, it availed them nothing. They may be just about to do it now, and, unlike the average of German O.C. Companies, our officers never ask their men to face any kind of danger which they themselves do not face with them. And so, for this particular O.C. Company, the interior of that queer little dug-out (where the men's rum stands in jars under the lower bunk, and letters from home are scanned, maps pored over, and reports and returns made out) does not exactly bring unmixed repose. But the rats love it."
So there you are! By the judicious picking of Taffy's brains I have been enabled to present you with a much better picture of a dug-out than my own unaided pen could give. Reading over, there seems something melancholy and sombre about it; I don't know why. It's a jolly little dug-out, and Taffy's a thundering fine officer; nothing in the least melancholy about him. Then why—? Oh, well, I guess it's his Celtic blood. Maybe he's got a temperament. I must tell him so. By the way, that wiring job he mentions came off all right; a nasty exposed place, but "the Peacemaker" got his party through without a single casualty, or, as the men always say, "Casuality."
Taffy writes a much better letter, doesn't he? than your
"Temporary Gentleman."