The low-ground in the quarry was very wet, and the trench there two feet deep in water, so it was temporarily abandoned, and the little trench out of 76 Street by No. 1 Sniping Post was my way to No. 5 Platoon. It was a very narrow bit of trench, and on a dark night one kept knocking one’s thighs and elbows against hard corners of chalk-filled sand-bags. To-night it was easy in the white moonlight. It was really not a trench at all, but a path behind a sand-bag dump. Behind was the open field. There was no parados.
All correct on the two posts in No. 5. It seemed almost unnecessary to have two posts on such a bright night. The outline of the German parapet looked clear enough. Surely the sentries must be almost visible to-night? Right opposite was the dark earth of a sap-head. Our wire looked very near and thin.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, sir!”
I saw the bombs lying ready in the crease between two sand-bags that formed the parapet top. The pins were bent straight, ready for quick drawing. The bomber was all right; and there was not much wrong with his pal’s bayonet, that glistened in the moonlight.
As usual, I went beyond our right post, until I was met by a peering, suspicious head from the left-hand sentry of “C” Company.
“Who’s that?” in a hoarse low voice, as the figure bent down off the fire-step.
“All right. Officer. ‘B’ Company.”
Then I passed back along the trench to the top of 76 Street; and so on, visiting all the sentries up to 80 A trench, and disturbing all the working-parties.
“Way, please,” I would say to the hindquarters of an energetic wielder of the pick.