‘Yus, I guess old Fritz uses some of them every night. Hullo, there they go again. ’Ear that machine-gun?’
Long pause, during which machine-guns pop, and snipers snipe merrily, and flares light up the sky. Trench-mortars begin behind us ‘whizz-sh-sh-sh-h-h’—silence—‘THUD.’ Then the Germans reply, sending two or three over which thud harmlessly behind. The invisible sentries have now become clearly visible to me as I look out of my dug-out. Two of them are about ten yards apart standing on the fire-platform. Theirs is the above dialogue.
With a sudden thud, a trench-mortar shell drops fifteen yards behind us.
‘Hullo, Fritz is getting the wind up.’
‘Getting the wind up’ is slang for getting nervous: this stolid comment from a sentry is typical of the attitude adopted towards ‘Fritz’ (the German) when he starts shelling or finding. He is supposed to be a bit jumpy! It seems hard to realise that Fritz is really trying to kill these sentries: the whole thing seems a weird, strange play.
I make an effort, and crawl out of the dug-out. The ‘strafing’ has died down. Only occasional flares climb up from the German lines, and ‘pop,’ ‘pop’ in the morning mist. I go round the sentries, standing up by them and looking over the parapet. It is cold and raw, and the sentries are looking forward to the next relief. Ah! there is the corporal on trench duty coming. I can hear him routing out the snoring relief.
‘Ping-g-g-g’ goes a stray bullet singing by—a ricochet by its sound.
‘A near one, sir.’
‘Yes, Evans. Safer in the front line.’
‘I guess it is, sir.’