"I've copped a sting again," he yelled. "That's umpty eleven times. I always said that I didn't 'old with a war like this un. Bombs and bullets, whizz-bangs and pip-squeaks and now these 'ere God-forsaken wopses.... That's anuver one, a blurry Boche. 'E sniped me from the rim of me cap.... God! Platoons of 'em.... Oh! damn! That un took me at the rear where I should 'ave a patch on me trousers...."
Again a bay was entered where another merry party was sitting down to breakfast; a gargantuan spread of fried bacon, toast and trench tea. A platoon officer was sharing in the meal. He was a stout good-natured man with a bald head, baby-pink and shiny. The advance party of wasps could not miss the head; the pests came to a halt on it, and being nasty, they stung when they alighted. The officer yelled several words which the men had never noticed in his vocabulary before. Groping frantically for his hat, which, as often happens in a crisis, was nowhere to be found, he overturned the brazier, the toast-rack, and several canteens of tea, scalding the feet of a number of men who were seated on the firestep.... The soldiers were up in an instant and raced off along the trench. Rifles, equipment and ammunition were flung down on the floor and trampled into the clay and rubble.
At this point, Spudhole was seized with a happy thought. A newspaper had fallen on the fire and was bursting into flame. Spudhole, seizing the lighted paper, held it close to his face and kept the wasps away for a moment.
"But wot is the good of it," he grumbled as the flames died down. "I'm getting stung be'ind and burned in front. I'm off!" and, throwing the paper down, he fled.
Struggling, shoving and waving their arms about, the men hustled along the narrow alley. Two soldiers scrambled up over the top out into the open, but, being seen by the enemy, a brisk rifle fire was opened on them and they fled back into their wasp-infested shelter again.
At this point Sergeant Snogger was heard. Seeing two men rushing out into the open field waving their arms over their heads, he stared at them open-mouthed and rubbed his eyes with both hands. A hidden sniper had been potting at the parapet for days!... The action was not in keeping with trench discipline; in fact if the men did not return immediately they'd "be damned unlucky!"
"Back! Ye fools, come back!" he yelled. "Wot the blazes—was that!"
The wasp swept past his face like a spent bullet, swung back again and stung him on the forehead. A second caught him on the neck, a third on the arm. He turned and ran.
For Flanagan, he was unlucky enough to have his puttees off when the stampede started, and in a few moments a wasp had got up the leg of his trousers. It stung him half-a-dozen times before he squashed it to pulp....
What happened when the Irish rushed into a Highland regiment on the right must be left to the reader's imagination. Never before had the Gael been so conscious of the nakedness of his knees. He gave vent to his wrath in vehement words and it was found difficult to ascertain whether his anger was directed against the wasps or the men who were responsible for their coming.