“That shows who is top dog,” said another. “They’re the ones that are worried.”
I had heard of trench exhaustion, trench despair, but there was no sign of it in a regiment that had been through all the hell and mire that the British army had known since the war began. To no one had Neuve Chapelle meant so much as to these common soldiers. It was their first real victory. They were standing on soil won from the Germans.
“We’re going to Berlin!” said a big fellow who was standing, palms downward to the fire. “It’s settled. We’re going to Berlin.”
A smaller man with his back against the sandbags disagreed. There was a trench argument.
“No, we’re going to the Rhine,” he said. “The Russians are going to Berlin.” (This was in March, 1915, remember.)
“How can they when they ain’t over the Balkans yet?”
“The Carpathians, you mean.”
“Well, they’re both mountains and the Russians have got to cross them. And there’s a place called Cracow in that region. What’s the matter of a pair of mountain ranges between you and me, Bill? You’re strong on geography, but you fail to follow the campaign.”
“The Rhine, I say!”
“It’s the Rhine first, but Berlin is what you want to keep your mind on.”