Four belts we gave 'em altogether, and then whipped the guns down into cover, just as the Boche machine-guns began to answer from all along their line. It was a "great do," as the S.M. said. The men were wildly delighted. They had seen the target; lain and watched it, under orders not to make a sound. And now the pressure was off. Listening now, the Boche guns having ceased fire, our sentries could plainly hear groaning and moaning opposite, and see the lights reflected on the Boche parados moving to and fro as their stretcher-bearers went about their work. A "great do," indeed. And so says your
"Temporary Gentleman."
IN BILLETS
You have asked me once or twice about billets, and I ought to have told you more about them before; only there seems such a lot to pick and choose from that when I do sit down to write I seldom get on to the particular story I mean to tell.
And that reminds me, I didn't tell you of the odd thing that happened the night we came out into billets this time. The Boche had finished his customary evening Hymn of Hate, or we thought he had, and while the men were filing into their different billets the C.S.M. proceeded to post our Company guard outside Company Headquarters. He had just given the sentry his instructions and turned away, when Boche broke out in a fresh place—their battery commander's evening sauerkraut had disagreed with him, or something—and half a dozen shells came whistling over the village in quick succession. One landed in the roadway, a yard and a half in front of the newly-posted sentry. Had it been a sound shell, it would have "sent him West"; but it proved a dud, and merely dug itself a neat hole in the macadam and lay there like a little man, having first sent a spray of mud and a few bits of flint spurting over our sentry and rattling against his box.
Now that sentry happened to be our friend Tommy Dodd; and Tommy was about tired out. He'd been on a wiring party over the parapet three parts of the night, taken his turn of sentry-go in the other part; and all day long had been digging and mud-scooping, like the little hero he is, to finish repairing an impassable bit of trench that master Boche had blown in the evening before, to make it safe before we handed over to the Company relieving. He was literally caked in clay from head to foot; eyebrows, moustache, and all; he hadn't a dry stitch on him, and, of course, had not had his supper. It was an oversight that he should have been detailed for first sentry-go on our arrival in billets. I had noticed him marching up from the trenches; he could hardly drag one foot after another. What do you think the shell landing at his feet and showering mud on him extorted from weary Tommy Dodd? I was standing alongside at the time.
"'Ere, not so much of it, Mister Boche! You take it from me an' be a bit more careful like. Silly blighter! Wotjer playin' at? Didn't yer know I was on sentry? Chuckin' yer silly shells about like that! If yer ain't more careful you'll be dirty'n me nice clean uniform nex', an' gettin' me paraded over for bein' dirty on sentry-go!"
It's a pretty good spirit, isn't it? And I can assure you it runs right through; warranted fast colour; and as for standing the wash—well, Tommy Dodd had been up to his middle in muddy water most of the day. The Kaiser may have a pretty big military organisation, but, believe me, Germany and Austria together don't contain anything strong enough to dull, let alone break the spirit of the men of the New Army. The Army's new enough; but the tradition and the spirit are from the same old bin. It isn't altered; and there's nothing better; not anywhere in the world.