A month later the D.C.M. was given to Bowdy Benners.
CHAPTER VIII
BACK TO HIS OWN
We're out't for duration now and do not care a cuss,
There's beer to spare at dinner time and afters now for us,
But if our buttys still were out in Flanders raising Cain,
We'd weather through with those we knew on bully beef again—
The Old Sweats!
The grub it was skimp with the Ole Sweats,
But if rations was small,
'Twas the same for us all,
Same for the 'ole of the Ole Sweats.
(From "Soldier Songs.")
The dark night clung close to the wet levels of No Man's Land, and a breeze whimpered across the grasses, crooning wearily. The whole world seemed tired; the star-shells rose lazily over the German trenches, burned drowsily for a space, and fell sluggishly to earth. The light failing, the circle of horizon grew less, and objects quite close at hand became hidden from view. The hour was about ten, and Bowdy Benners felt tired and sleepy. He was sick of it all—the night raids, the attacks, and bombing encounters. His mind turned to home—quiet London—the peaceful houses, the easy nights of untroubled sleep, afternoon teas, and the hundred-and-one comforts of civil life which were so far removed from him at the moment.
"It must be ten now," he muttered. "I suppose I'll get relieved presently."
The door of a near dug-out opened, and the ray of a candle shone out into the trench. One of his mates came out, his rifle in his hand, his waterproof ground-sheet over his shoulders.
"Is that you, Bubb?" he asked. "Taking a turn as sentry?"