Presently there was a lull, then complete silence; in the clear moonlight, the devastated countryside gave one a weird impression. Then “old Fritzy opened up,” and although the rumble of his guns was not so distinct, I judged that he was giving us about as much as we had given him. I wondered how much harm would be done, and whether many of our lads would be killed. Then slowly the firing ceased and presently again “all was quiet on the Western Front.”
I was just about to reënter my quarters when I received another surprise. From a hut just a few yards away came sounds of singing. I listened: it was a low, sweet song that I had never heard before—a quartet, and the harmony seemed perfect. I had never before heard such sweet singing. An officer came out of the mess and stood near me, listening in silence. Then he said: “That’s pretty good, Padre.” I agreed with him, but I confessed I had never heard the song before.
“Why, Padre,” he said, “the name of that song is ‘Sweet Genevieve’. Strange you never heard it! Wherever men are congregated one will hear that song. It’s an old song, Padre. Strange you never heard it!”
So I had heard two sounds that I had never before heard: one was the sound of a “strafe” on the Western Front; the other was the singing of “Sweet Genevieve.”
Chapter XL
The Valley of the Dead
When I reëntered my hut I found that the young soldier had opened my bed-roll and removed the few little articles that were in it. The bed-roll was arranged for the night on the burlap berth.
“You haven’t enough blankets, sir,” he said. Then he was gone; but in about five minutes he was back again with two thick brown army blankets. After I had thanked him, he looked around to see if he could improve anything before leaving for the night. Not seeing anything, he was just about to open the door when he turned and said: “If old Fritz comes over to bomb us tonight, sir, the safest place for you will be down in the trench. It’s a moonlight night and Fritzy likes to be out in the moonlight.”
There was no bombing that night, but it was so extremely cold that I could not sleep. I spent the night changing from one position to another in the hope of getting warm, but I remained awake till daylight.
About seven o’clock the following morning I heard a fumbling at the latch of my door. I had just finished my prayers. I waited, for I knew the door was not locked; then as the latch was raised the door opened, assisted by the foot of the one entering. First there appeared a large granite iron plate of steaming porridge and a smoky hand holding it, then a granite iron mug of something steaming, and another smoky hand holding it. Then appeared the kindly soldier of the night before, his pleasant face a little begrimed, but smiling, the arm of the hand which held the mug hugging to his side a small earthen jar of sugar with a spoon in it. I went to his assistance and soon we had the things spread out on an upturned ration box which had been the seat. Now it was the table, and the bed was my seat.
“How did you sleep, sir?” asked the soldier. I told him. Then he said he must try to find something to make a stove. He went on to tell me that he and the cook had built one, but that it was not working well. He held up his hands as evidence, and I looked at his face. “The cook is out there now,” he said, “trying to cook the breakfast, and swearing, for there’s more smoke coming out around the stove than there is going up the chimney.”