In one of our dashes for the ditch to seek cover, I tripped and fell forward and the bayonets of the rifles that were slung on my shoulders and slanting forward plunged into the earth and forcibly suspended me in midair, and there I was compelled to hang until my chums released me by taking me by the collar and setting me on my feet. Roaring with laughter my pals advised me to unfix the bayonets and, said Batch, "Don't go trying to stab yourself with them the next time we have to beat it for cover. Oh, runt, you will be the death of me yet with your comical ways."
Even the wounded man, with five bad shrapnel wounds, laughed and then moaned with the pain.
Nothing further happened until we came to the dressing station and one of the doctors curtly dismissed us. Batch and myself decided we would make for our old dugout by a short route, going by the north side of the dressing station. It was now getting dark and on our way Batch inadvertently plunged head foremost into a dyke. First, a guzzle, and then things unprintable. I successfully cleared the dyke by grabbing an overhanging willow and swinging myself across.
Again we started, falling over tangled wire in the rank grass, and, to make matters worse, stinging nettles, which grew plentifully in this particular place, came constantly in contact with our hands or faces. Words again failed us. As a climax to our feelings, Fritz right at this particular moment decided to shell this particular place. Deafened, almost blinded by the detonation and the flash of shells, we found ourselves finally not at our dugout, but at the dressing station from which we had started. We had traveled in a circle. I could hear nothing but the grinding of Batch's big white teeth. I then determined to be the guide of our little party and so informed Batch, and in half the time that we had taken to make the long course, we found ourselves comfortably ensconced in the dugout at the house I have previously mentioned, and in short order Batch had his pipe out, smoking strongly with the complete satisfaction of a man who has done his duty. I searched for my pipe and was dismayed at not being able to find it.
"Where is your pipe, Bub?" said Batch.
"Blime me, I guess I must have left it out in the dugout by the apple tree so I will go and see if it is there."
"Better find it, as I have some St. Clair's mixture from Newcastle."
This tobacco was the joy of a soldier's heart and I made my way to the dugout where I felt sure I had left it and there sure enough it was lying on a couple of sandbags. I grabbed it and started back to rejoin Batch, but, just as I did so, I heard the peculiar moaning sound of a "coal box" that seemed to be coming straight at me. Sweating with apprehension I threw myself flat and waited the arrival of hell's messenger. Cr-r-r-mp! it landed right on the dugout I had just vacated. Why I was not killed instantly is one of those miracle mysteries that can never be answered, for I was only about twenty feet away when that shell, which was a 5.9 high explosive, burst directly on the dugout.
I flung myself down beside Batch, telling him of the incident. All the sympathy I got was, "Serves you damn well right; a soldier ought to know better than to leave his pipe lying around loose."
About an hour after this the boys came down again, with many familiar faces missing. We were allowed a few hours of interrupted sleep, and about daylight we stood to, as is the custom on the Western Front. It was most uncannily quiet after the past days of a continuous fire; the silence disturbed us, and we could see by the actions of the officers that they too were uneasy. Still the fatalistic spirit of the men reasserted itself and the poker parties soon resumed their sittings.