A British soldier appeared out of the darkness in front.
“We’ve found two of our men out there with their heads blown off by shells,” he said. “Have we permission to go out and bury them, sir?”
“Yes.”
They would be as safe as the fellows piling mud against the chicken wire, unless the Germans opened fire. If they did, we could fire on their working party, or in the direction of the sound. For that matter, we knew through our glasses by day the location of any weak places in their breastworks and they knew where ours were. A sort of “after-you-gentlemen-if-you-fire-we-shall” understanding sometimes exists between the foes up to a certain point. Each side understands instinctively the limitation of that point. Too much noise in working; a number of men going out to bury dead or making enough noise to be heard, and the ball begins. A deep, broad ditch filled with water made a break in our line. No doubt a German machine gun was trained on it.
“A little bridging is required here,” said the captain. “We’ll have it done to-morrow night. The break is no disadvantage if they attack; in fact, we’d rather like to have them try for it. But it makes movement along the line difficult by day.”
When we were across and once more behind the breastworks, he called my attention to some high ground in the rear.
“One of our officers took a short cut across there in daylight,” he said. “He was quite exposed and they drew a bead on him from the German trench and got him through the arm. Not a serious hit. It wasn’t cricket for any one to go out to bring him in. He realised this and called out to leave him to himself, and crawled to cover on his hands and knees.”
I was getting the commonplaces of trench life. Thus far it had been a quiet night and was to remain so. Reddish, flickering swaths of light were thrown across the fields between the trenches by the enemy’s Roman candle flares. One tried to estimate how many flares the Germans must use every night from Switzerland to the North Sea.
On our side, the only light was from our braziers. Thomas Atkins has become a patron of braziers made by punching holes in buckets; and so have the Germans. Punch holes in a bucket, start a fire inside, and you have cheer and warmth and light through the long night vigils. Two or three days before we had located a sniper between the lines by seeing him swing his fire pot to make a draft against the embers.
If you have ever sat around a campfire in the forest or on the plains you need be told nothing further. One of the old, glamourous features of war survives in these glowing braziers, spreading their genial rays among the little houses and lighting the faces of the men who stand or squat in encircling groups around the coals, which dry wet clothes, slake the moisture of a section of earth, make the bayonets against the walls glisten, and reveal the position of a machine gun with its tape ready for firing.