The awful possibility of such a contingency must have instantly aroused the negligent one to a sense of the impending danger, for darting from his hole he recovered the precious instrument and made a return trip for the records.
For the few days that we were sunken in those miserable holes, which were the merest apologies for dugouts on the canal, we lightened the tedium of the many hours of weary waiting by the magic of that wonderful box.
The initiative of our mob was never better shown than in the following amusing happening. At night those of us who were not engaged in fatigues were told off to patrol the canal banks. Day and night a never-ending stream of French soldiers would pour from the city carrying with them loads of wine, etc. Walworth, who spoke French like a native and who was the possessor of a commanding physique and air, would temporarily, at the wish of his comrades, take charge of the patrol, and they would halt a party of these Frenchmen and tell them that they had orders to confiscate all loot, and, deeply as they regretted it, they must disgorge their wine, together with the et ceteras they had. An argument would follow and the Frenchmen would protest. Then Walworth, with an air of condescension, and a warning to the Frenchmen to say nothing about this breach of duty, would agree to a division of the spoils. Through this handy medium we were saved the trouble of going after it ourselves. Arriving at our dugouts in the morning we would find a bottle or two of very excellent wine which had been thrown into our holes by the Frenchies, and this wine heated made a very acceptable drink in the chill hours of the morning.
Another evidence of my "yellow streak" took place one day when we went for a bath in the canal. Every man who knew me and who is alive today laughs every time the incident is mentioned. My chums had all left the water, but I decided to swim the canal once more. Just then a shell landed plumb in the water, most uncomfortably close. The sensation I experienced was peculiar, to put it mildly. I spun round and round, after the fashion of a top, and fancied that I had swallowed half the water of the canal. Struggling in a sort of frightened frenzy to the shore, and without waiting to put on my clothes, I dashed like a flash of lightning up the canal bank into the orchard and hurled myself into my hole, where I sat blubbering and sobbing like a scared child.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FUN OF IT
One incident, although nearly tragic, makes me laugh when I think of it. In our platoon we had a very peculiar character; he was (as most of us were) an Englishman, but I strongly suspect he had a big splash of Gypsy blood in his veins. In spite of all orders to the contrary, this boy would wander away and be gone for hours, and would return laden with all kinds of souvenirs—helmets, bayonets, bottles—almost every conceivable thing, and one day he came in with a woman's full rig-out of clothes. Another day he was missing and came back at dusk with a string of six beautiful fresh fish. Two of us accidentally fell on the place where these fish abounded; it was a kind of fish preserve, after the fashion of the fish ponds around old mansions in England, but this fellow, I believe, found them by instinct. The boys who knew him would have wagered their shirts or their last nickels that if he was asked he would fetch Von Kluck's sword from out of the German lines in broad daylight. Of course around Ypres he was in the seventh heaven and at the back of his dugout such a bewildering mass of junk was never collected by living man. Old clocks, pieces of shrapnel, sabots, wine bottles, needles and a host of other things, including all kinds of clothing. Of course he could not take them with him, but he was to my idea a kind of left-handed kleptomaniac.
He was very busy ferreting along the canal banks and in the orchard one afternoon, when Fritz sent over five whiz bangs in rapid succession. With a yell he clapped his hand to that part of his anatomy where a kick is usually administered, staggered a few paces and fell. The apple tree above my head was cut to pieces, but when the banging commenced I lost no time investigating the innermost corner of my dugout and escaped unhurt; greased lightning was a slow freight to the way I dived for safer regions.
After waiting a few seconds to let the splinters settle, I looked for Gypsy. He was severely wounded, but not of a too serious nature, and in spite of his being so badly hurt, I could not help saying, "Tahn, son, that got you right in the proper place."
The story went up and down the line many times afterwards, because it seemed so funny for a man who was always poking his nose in forbidden places, that he should get hit just where a boy would, who had been stealing apples.