And the night was full of mysterious whispers, sounds, creakings and rustlings. Spirits seemed to lurk on the vacant face of the earth and uncanny spirits hovered over the world. In the near distance all objects took on strange, undefined shapes, well in keeping with the grotesque fantasy of war.... Suddenly Fitzgerald fancied that he heard somewhere near him the sharp snap of a rifle bolt. He turned round and scurried back to the trench which he had just left. It seemed quite a distance to traverse and he slipped over the parapet and flopped down into the mud. But not a soul was to be seen, the trench was deserted. Neither was it the trench which he had left. Here the slush reached his hips. "Well, I'm damned!" he said, and leant against the parapet. "What am I going to do? I'm going to stick here, stick well in."
Shadow and silence brooded over the place, he had descended into the stagnation of the tomb. The clammy slush ran down his top boots and settled round his heels. He advanced one step, then another, touching both walls of the alley with his outstretched hands. He looked up and saw that the walls were very steep. It was impossible to climb up; the clay was too soft, it came away in the hands, and his feet were so weighty. Besides now he was sticking. Every time he moved the mud gripped him with greater vehemence. It seemed as if his feet were slipping down the throat of a voracious monster which was endeavouring to swallow him. The floor of the trench was a treacherous quicksand, as greedy as the grave. For a moment, Fitzgerald fought madly against the embrace of this soft, elusive terror, he gripped at the walls, the mud came away in his hands, he pulled one foot out, the other sank deeper. To move was ghastly, to remain still was deadly.
"I must move," he muttered. "If I don't I'll die; if I make a struggle, my fate will rest on the knees of the gods and they may save me."
The mud was reaching his waist. To pull out one leg he had to reach forward until his face touched the mucky floor, raise his hind foot clear, bring it round with a circular motion and place it down in the slush again. The same operation had to be performed at each remove. Once, he placed his hands in the muck and tried to crawl. But the effort was futile; his hands sunk in to the shoulder and the earth rose greedily, as if wanting to clutch him.
Fitzgerald came to a halt and looked hopelessly round. Nothing was to be seen but the darkness; the night was a cavern in which he had got lost. He gripped at the wall of the trench with furious fingers and part of the parapet came away in his hands, almost burying him.
"It's no good. I'm going to peg out here," he said, as he tried to shake himself clear. "If I only had a starshell over my head I'd look for a spot to die. I would select a better spot than this, anyway, if I had choice. But they've stopped sending up starshells now.... And I should have a parcel by the post to-night," he muttered. "And another drop of rum will be going round now I think.... But is that all I've to think about?..."
He shouted at the top of his voice, but there was no reply. He yelled again and then became silent. "What's the good of it?" he asked himself in a whisper. "I don't know where I am. Maybe I'm near the German trenches. If they find me here what will they do? Tread me in, probably.... And the mine, what about it? I've still got the message in my pocket. I wish this had happened after I had delivered the thing. But I'll go on a bit. I'll get to somewhere."
He moved forward. The first step was difficult, the next was easier, the subsoil had lost its birdlime tenacity and the slush was not as dense. A few steps further and Fitzgerald breathed. He was going up an incline, getting out of it his head was almost parallel with the rim of the trench. He burst into song:
"Four stick standers,
Four lilly wanders,
A hooker
And a crooker
And a swing about.
Three sheep sharahan,
Owned by Eamon Garahan,
A ribag
And a thonag
And a coat of bawnagh brockagh."
The song suddenly stopped. A heavy shell swept over his head and burst very near. Another followed and another and Fitzgerald noticed that he had reached a junction where a number of trenches criss-crossed.