“Hell of a strafe upstairs. I think they’re coming over.”
And indeed there was a strafe. Verey lights were going up all along the front. Three dumps were hit in as many minutes, from the right came the continual crump of “minnies.” Luckily we were in the shelter between the barrage on the eighteen-pounders and the barrage on the front lines. The only shells that came disconcertingly close were those from one of our own heavies that was dropping short, like a man out of breath.
At seven o’clock the Germans came over, and by twelve we were being escorted to Berlin.
Our actual engagement resembles so closely that of every other unfortunate during those sorry days that it deserves no detailed description. The only original incident came at about nine o’clock when I discovered the perfidy of the section cook. I had sent him down to fetch some breakfast, and he returned smoking triumphantly a gold-tipped cigarette that he could have obtained from only one source. Perhaps this is what those mean who maintain that in the moment of action one sees the naked truth of the human soul. At any rate it stripped Private Hawkins pretty effectively. No doubt this kleptomania had been a practice with him for a long time, and at this critical moment I suppose he saw no reason why he should conceal it: “much is forgiven to a man condemned.” He literally flaunted theft.
“Hawkins,” I said quietly, “you’ll go back to the gun-team to-morrow. We’ll find another cook.”
“Very good, Sir.”
And almost instantly the order was given a divine confirmation in the form of the cushiest of flesh wounds in Private Hawkins’s right arm.
After a second’s gasp he bounded down the trench.