“Not quite so loud!” he warned a soldier who was bringing up boards from the rear under cover of darkness. “If the Germans hear they may start firing.”
Two other men were piling mud on top of a section of breastwork at an angle to the main line.
“What is that for?” the captain asked.
“They get an enfilade on us here, sir, and Mr. —— (the lieutenant) told me to make this higher.”
“That’s no good. A bullet will go right through,” said the captain. “We’ll have to wait until we get more sandbags.”
A little farther on we came to an open space, with no protection between us and the Germans. Half a dozen men were piling earth against a staked chicken wire to extend the breastworks. Rather, they were piling mud, and they were besmirched from head to foot. They looked like reeking Neptunes rising from a slough. In the same position in daylight, standing full height before German rifles at three hundred yards, they would have been shot dead before they could leap to cover.
“How does it go?” asked the captain.
“Very well, sir; though what we need is sandbags.”
“We’ll have some up to-morrow.”
At the moment there was no firing in the vicinity. Faintly I heard the Germans pounding stakes, at work improving their own breastworks.