"Does it look to you like an opening in the branches of that tree—the big one at the right?"
In the mass of leaves a dark spot was visible. It might be natural, or it might be a space cut away for the swing of a rifle-barrel. Perhaps sitting up there snugly behind a bullet-proof shield fastened to the limbs was a German sharpshooter, watching for a shot with the patience of a hound for a rabbit to come out of its hole.
"It's about time we gave that tree a spray good for that kind of fungus, from a machine-gun!"
A bullet coming from our side swept overhead. One of our own sharpshooters had seen something to shoot at.
"Not giving you much excitement!" said Tommy.
"I suppose I'd get a little if I stood up on the parapet?" I asked.
"You wouldn't get a ticket for England; you'd get a box!"
"There's a cemetery just behind the lines if you'd prefer to stay in
France!"
I had passed that cemetery with its fresh wooden crosses on my way to the trench. These tenderhearted soldiers who joked with death had placed flowers on the graves of fallen comrades and bought elaborate French funeral wreaths with their meagre pay—which is another side of Mr. Thomas Atkins. There is sentiment in him. Yes, he's loaded with sentiment, but not for the "movies."
"Keep your head down there, Eames!" called a corporal. "I don't want to be taking an inventory of your kit."