The wagons, too, make such a distinct noise as they rumble over the metal road. I agree with one of the men whom I hear declaring to a chum that 'the whole bally thing is "no bon."' The men inquire, when a fresh gun-shock is heard, 'Is that ours or theirs?' With a brave optimism, I assure them that all the guns in action are ours. They take me for a veteran, and say, 'It's all right; the padre says they are all ours.' Most of the men who have been in action before add to their authority by agreeing with me. But I have a shrewd suspicion that, like me, they think they are all ours, and I know they hope they are all ours. With a splendid audacity and tone of finality, reminiscent of my cricket-umpiring days, I continue coolly to announce to every inquirer, 'Yes, of course that's one of ours.' At last a shell breaks on the road with a vicious 'whiz-bang.' No one is hurt, thank God, but it was close, and the horses are playing up. Amid the silence which follows, one of our Australians cries out: 'Now, then, padre, what about that? Is that one of ours?' Such a question, and at such a time, demands a moment's thought. But I answer quite confidently, 'Yes, that's ours—now.' Everybody laughs, but it relieves the tension. It is relieved more by the fact that the lieutenant, realizing that we have gone too far, has given the order to 'About turn,' and we are getting the horses and wagons behind the bend of the road.
More inquiries. I've lost my faith in the transport. The doctor's groom has come for the restless 'Rosinante,' and I'm free. If I am to get to the Battalion Head Quarters, I must proceed 'on my own.' But first I will turn into this little shelter, a forsaken dug-out covered with stout beams and sand-bags.
Two of us light up our pipes, but a profane sentry draws near. 'Now, then, you blighters, put out those pipes. You mustn't show the Huns a light. Don't you know you're in a very dangerous place?'
It's all dangerous, but we didn't know that this place was specially dangerous. I must make some inquiries of my own. I would have to leave the transport some time. Why not now? I get into a long communication sap. Like many another on the Western Front it is called Watling Street. But it gives me a cue. I remember now that it leads into Convent Avenue, and that, I heard them say, leads into Plug Street, and that is the road to the Battalion Head Quarters.
I pull my tin-hat[tin-hat] firmly down, and when the banks are low I crouch, for the machine-gun bullets are whistling overhead, and all the choir and orchestra of the guns on both sides are in full voice now. The Concert of Europe has, by a metallic crescendo, reached its fortissimo.
The full diapason is out, but, as always in war, the vox humana is silent. There are little islands (traverses) in the communication trench, and suddenly emerging from the sap near one of these, I nearly bump into a sturdy machine-gunner I know well. He is a member of my Church, a sweet singer in my choir when he is at home. And this is the night for the choir practice, too. I see it now as in a vision. The choir is gathered round the great organ, and the conductor raps out his admonitions with the baton. They are practising one of my favourite anthems, 'Send out Thy Light.'
'You must duck your head here, padre; it is a bad place, and you are not supposed to loiter.'
But I must wait. I am asking myself, 'Are these guns sending out the Light and Truth?' 'Yes, they are,' I say to myself. It is a quick mental process, but I am satisfied with the conclusion.
We crouch down together and talk of the old church. He gives me more information, and I press on again. I am talking to myself, a bad sign, but the meeting and the memory has stirred up emotions not to be stilled.
'We must have two anthems next Sunday,' I say to the conductor as though he were present. 'First, "Send out Thy Light," and second, "The Radiant Morn."'