"Interesting bit of road, that stretch between Ypres and here—been in the front line trenches ourselves for a week out there—caught blazes, too!"
His uniform still showed the effects of the trench mud. He was a tall, thin chap, prematurely grey. Like many others of the Princess Pats, he was a veteran of the South African War, a crack-shot, and all-round dare-devil. He spoke in short, quick snatches, starting his sentences with unexpected jerks, and could keep a regiment in shrieks of laughter.
"How is the trench life out here?" the colonel enquired, with a jerk of the head towards the battle line.
"Plain hell—with a capital H. Excuse the repetition of the word—nothing else describes it—a quagmire two feet deep, full of mud and filth."
"Couldn't you dig it deeper?" Reggy enquired with some concern.
"No chance—everywhere you dig—turn up rotting carcases—farther down you go the more water you have to stand in."
"The snipers are bad too, are they not?" I asked him.
He laughed again. "Were bad, you mean," he cried; "not many left around our trench. Poor Fritzie found us a nasty lot—played dirty tricks on him—organised a 'snipe-the-sniper' squad—put 'em out of business."
"How did you manage it?" I asked curiously.
"Stalked 'em—like red Indians—dug a tunnel out to a hill too—came up through the centre of it—hollowed it out inside—and put 'em to sleep one by one. Fritzie doesn't love us any more, but, by Gad, he respects us!"