"It's too broad at the point. The man that gave ye that dam'd thing might just as well 'ave passed sentence o' death on yer in a 'and to 'and go."
As a loyal Canadian I was at first inclined to resent the imputation that our rifle was in any way inferior to anything on earth, but the corporal's prophecy proved only too true within a short month.
With another spell at sentry the night wore on and at last day began to break. The morning was foggy and raw, but our hearts were cheered by the coming up of the rum. Yes, you may be horrified, good people who read this, but that rum is a God-send, and so you too would think if you had been standing with feet that you did not feel you possessed, shivering, plastered with mud and wet to the skin, standing with rifle ready an hour before dawn, expecting that any minute you might have to line the trenches and fight for your life. Under those conditions you may understand why a man needs something to warm the blood in his veins.
One of the Tommies, my sentry chum, stole out under cover of the fog and returned with a jar of water. We built a fire (we were allowed fires as long as the fog lasted) and dined sumptuously on bully beef and strong tea. One of the regulars, a man about thirty years old, was alternately cursing the Germans and trying to warm his feet. Apparently he did not care whether he was hit or not, as he stood at the back of the trench, his entire body exposed, his chief concern in life apparently being to get warm.
In his efforts to get his blood circulating he said he would rather be home again than standing all night in that bloody trough of water and mud. Something in his tone about home suggested a thought to one fellow who queried: "You would rather be home again? Is it nearly as bad as this?"
WHAT A FIRST-LINE TRENCH LOOKS LIKE.
This picture is typical of the first line of an European battle-field. Barbed-wire entanglements are everywhere. Sandbags are piled high on the top of the trench.