The upshot of it all was that Fritz grew suspicious and up went a flare, but we were not spotted except by a few snipers who sent over a few souvenirs, which luckily none of us accepted. The pain in my tummie obliged me to stay behind for a time, and when I felt able to go on, the boys were disappearing in front. The man who dug his rifle butt into my stomach was named "Slaughter" and he gave me solid proof that he earned his name that night, for my tummie was sore for weeks.
I was afraid I was going to get lost, so I mustered up all my strength to try and run after the boys, and after covering a few yards, over I went into a Jack Johnson hole (crater made by 16 inch shell, often fifteen to thirty feet wide and as deep). There wasn't much water in the hole, but lots of mud; my rifle was absolutely choked with it and I was in an awful mess. I managed to flounder out, and on going a short distance I was challenged and found I had come right into the trench we were to occupy.
CHAPTER XIII
IN THE FRONT LINE
A gruff voice with a broad Lancashire accent asked me who I was. I replied, "Fifth Canadians." "Aw reet," said he, "the'll be on the next trick wi' me," meaning I was to be sentry with him. A bunch of these British Tommies was out at the back filling sandbags, and their utter contempt for the occasional shots fired at them soon told me they were regulars. My companion and I soon became great chums, he explaining to me the various things about trench life.
As we talked, a succession of flares suddenly leapt skyward, the whole district being lit up by the green flare. The boys filling sandbags raced for the trench, grabbed their rifles and stood ready for anything that might come along. The Germans were sending a perfect fusillade over. It was no attack, however. They had simply sighted our listening patrols and had commenced firing on them.
My turn for sentry came, and with as little of myself showing as possible, I peered over the parapet. Of course, looking over the top is certain death during the day, but darkness makes it possible. It was a curious feeling I had. I could see nothing but inky blackness except when a flare went up. I would search the ground in front of me while the light lasted, then duck as the inevitable snipers took a pot shot.
For an hour I stood sentry, then was relieved. Five of my companions and myself huddled into a partially completed dugout in a vain effort to keep warm. While getting up to the trenches the weight of the equipment kept us warm, also the heavy traveling, but standing still in that trench was a different matter. The mud rose to my thighs in places. Inside the dugout was a small charcoal fire, but very little heat came from that. The night was bitterly raw and cold, and wet and muddy as we were, we could not keep from shivering, while I lost all feeling in my feet. Then we found we could get a certain amount of heat in the dugout, as the floor was dry, by hugging each other tightly. While it would be hard to conceive of a bunch of boys feeling more miserable than we did, yet I have to smile to myself when I think of those moments. With our arms clasping each other tightly, leaning over a little charcoal fire, our teeth chattering like monkeys, almost keeping time to the rattle of the machine guns, we managed to keep our heads. It is wonderful what men will endure when sweet life is the price.