The life of the Commune is seldom monotonous, its uncertainty makes it interesting, its novelty never wanes. The trench has its history, every dug-out a legend, and the shell-riven alleys of war are steeped in tradition. The narratives of the trench are handed on from regiment to regiment, a word or two on the firestep while the battalion just going out changes places with the relieving battalion, and the legend of an adjacent dug-out is made plain.
Such scraps of conversation as these may be heard. "That dug-out on the left got a 'ole in the roof the other night. A time-expired man who was going off to Blighty the next day went in there and lay down to kip. A whizz-bang 'it the roof, and the poor bloke went west."
"The Germans occupied these trenches at one time; the Guards charged them, and not a man escaped. You'll see their dug-outs all along here."
"A sniper used to play 'ell with this bay a month ago. 'E used to send the bullets into the trench. It took the men some time to discover 'im. Then they got 'im. 'E was up on the top of a chimney-stack in the village behind the German trench. 'E could see right down the trench. Our artillery brought the chimney down and the sniper with it."
So the stories are told and retold, and passed from one set of soldiers to the next who occupy the trenches.
No doubt stories become distorted and enlarged in the course of time, but always there is a grain of truth in the most exaggerated trench story; and every tale gives an added interest and a subtle touch of romance to the locality. The mean, primitive trench, the home of the Brown Brethren, is not without certain features of grandeur, and an atmosphere of mystery pervades the whole place, due, no doubt, to its close association with death.
It was yet dark in the trenches of the Cologne sector, a much be-shelled locality on Vimy Ridge, but a faint subdued flush showed on the Eastern sky far away behind the enemy's line. Stars were twinkling coldly clear overhead and a keen wind rustled along the floor of the trench. Vague mutterings and rumblings could be heard in the dug-outs; the men already warned to stand to arms on the banquette were snatching a few moments' extra repose; hugging with miserly desire at an additional minute's rest. Sergeant Snogger came running along the trench shouting. "Stand to! Stand to!" he called. There was no particular hurry for the sector was then a comparatively quiet one. But the sergeant merely ran because a brisk race was a most effective means of driving away the sleepy feeling which was fostered by the narcotic odours of the dug-out.
The men turned out yawning and swearing, then broke into a brisk run round a near traverse and back again to their posts by the dew-besprinkled bayonets. One man looked across the parapet, fixed an indifferent eye on the Ridge, then burst into a rag-time chorus which a mate took up with vigour.
The Zouave Wood, the shell-scarred spinney where the trees were flung broadcast by high concussion shells, lay on the left, wrapped in shadow and hiding many mysteries. In it was many a little grave where the kindly earth covered friend and foe alike. It was a place of many secrets, of strange and vague whispering. There, in the dawn, the spirits of the dead men seemed to hold converse. But by day the earth could not hide them, the weapons of the quick dug them again from the graves and flung them out on the riven spaces of the restless earth.
The air was cold and keen. The men covered their chins with the collars of their khaki coats, lit their cigarettes and leant against the parapet. They dozed for a moment and then woke guiltily with a start. Nobody had noticed them, they dozed again.... The east flushed crimson, the German trench to the left showed dark against the glow and stood out distinctly. A sniper's bullet ripped a sandbag and a shower of fine white dust dropped into the trench. No one paid any heed.... The birds were out hopping from prop to prop of the barbed wire entanglements. A lark soared into air pouring out an ecstatic song.... The dead men on the levels could now be seen lying close to the earth in limp and ghastly attitudes, the birds singing above them.... The sun was up; a million dewdrops sparkled in a glorious jewelled disarray on the wires.... The field had taken on a greener hue and in many places the daisies peeped timidly up from the soft grasses.... A white mist circled round the spinney and the gashes in the trees became more distinct. Looking southwards down on to the level lands one could see the Double Crassier tailing out on one side to the village of Loos and on the other side to the mining hamlet of Maroc.... Away down on the left, twelve kilometres away, lay Lens with its many chimneys, and a number of the chimneys smoking. The enemy were probably working the mines. The terra-cotta houses stood out very distinct and seemed nearer to us than they really were. The air was very clear and a perfect flood of brilliant sunshine lit the town, the enemy's trench and the dead men lying out on the field.