"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.
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."