CHAPTER XI
A SCRAP
We're well in the doin's. No more to be said—
The orficer wounded; the sergeant is dead.
If somethin' don't 'appen and that very soon,
We'll not have a man in the blurry platoon—
Blurry platoon,
Pore ole platoon,
Always it's for it; this blurry platoon.
(From "A Soldier's Song.")
It was not yet dawn, and the rain dropped sullenly into the wet trench where the soldiers stood to arms on the banquette, yawning and shivering with the cold. The bayonets showed clear cut and ominous when the blazing star-shell caught them. The men on watch shook themselves, rubbed their eyes with clay-encrusted fingers, and hummed monotonous tunes. All was very quiet. The dawn was oppressive, the dark, mysterious levels had an ominous threat in their incomprehensible silence. The support trench into which the soldiers had come was a great mysterious alley filled with spectres as impalpable as air.... The dawn came imperceptibly, men stood down and spoke of breakfast. But there was no fire; the loaves and biscuits were sodden with rain. Spudhole, who tried to open a tin of bully-beef with his clasp knife, cut his finger and swore dreadfully. His mates stared at him and nodded their heads, but did not speak....
Captain Thorley came along the trench speaking to the men on sentry-go.
"Cut your finger, Spudhole?" he asked when he came into the bay in which Bowdy and Bubb were stationed. The captain knew every man by nickname.
"Cut it," said Bubb. "Course I've cut it, sir. My fingers are so damn cold. Wot about this 'ere mine, sir?"
"It may go up now at any moment," said Captain Thorley. "You've all got to keep a good look-out. When it goes up every man cross the top and man the crater. Just as you did on Christmas morning. Bowdy will go with us this time. On the last occasion he was away, making love to some dear French girl."