“You’ve got those sand-bags up by 78 Street?” he said, sitting down.
“Yes, 250 there, and 250 right up in the Loop. The rest I shall use on the Fort. Oh! by the way, you know we are strafing at 12.5? We just had a message up from Dale. I shall knock off at 11.45 to-night!”
“I’ll see how we get on. I want to finish that traverse. Righto. I’m just drawing tools and going up now.”
“See you up there in a few minutes.”
And the muttering stream of “A” Company filed past the dug-out, going up to the front line. The door swung open suddenly, and each man looked in as he went by.
“Shut the door,” I shouted. Our plates themselves somehow suddenly looked epicurean.
Soon after eight I was up in the front line. It was the brightest night we had had, and ideal for sand-bag work. The men were already at it. There was a certain amount of inevitable talking going on, before everyone got really started. We were working on the Fort, completing two box dug-outs that we had half put in the night before; also, we were thickening the parapet, between the Fort and the Loop, and building a new fire-step.
“Can’t see any b—— sand-bags here,” came from one man.
“We’ll have to pick this, sir,” from another.
“Where’s Mullens gone off to?” sharply from a sergeant.