"There's a soldier out on picket
Over there,
There's a soldier out on picket
Over there,
There's a soldier out on picket,
And 'e wants 'is bloomin' ticket,
But the beggar's got to stick it
Over there.
'E don't mind the dug-outs' stenches
And the God-forsaken trenches
When 'e's thinkin' o' the wenches
Over there."
The voices died away as a shell burst in the road very close at hand.
"Nearer that time," said Bubb. "I wish we were in the trenches."
They sighted the village to find the shells bursting all through the place and the buildings flying about the streets. The children were in hiding, not a civilian was to be seen save a pale, thin woman of forty who stood at the door of a ruined estaminet. This had no doubt been her home; probably she was still living in the cellar.
The men stared at the woman, saw her bowed head, her ragged clothes, her queer, weedy form. In her eyes was a look such as the men had seldom seen. The poor creature reminded Bowdy of a dog which he once had seen prowling round a pond in which its young had been drowned.
"Wot's she doin' standin' out in the street like that?" said Bubb. "She'll stop a packet if she's not careful."
"Eyes right," came an order from an officer in front, and the men turned their eyes towards the woman at the door.
"Salutin' 'er. I wonder wot for," said Bubb.
"'Er four children were killed yesterday by a shell," said somebody in the ranks.
The woman raised her head and looked stolidly at the soldiers. Her expression did not change; perhaps feeling was dead within her.