CHAPTER II
THE LONE ROAD
"I want to go 'ome,
I want to go 'ome,
I don't want to go to the trenches no more,
Where the bullets and shrapnel do whistle and roar,
I want to go over the sea,
Where the Alley man can't get at me;
Oh, my!
I don't want to die,
I want to go 'ome!"
(A Trench Song.)
A strange glow overspread Fitzgerald's face and he rose from his seat by the stove and sat down again on a bench in a corner and spread out his hands timorously towards an imaginary fire. He bent his head forward until it drooped almost to his knees and his whole attitude took on a semblance of want and woe beset with an overpowering fear. Benners gasped involuntarily as he waited for the song.
A long, drawn out, hardly audible note that wavered like a thread of smoke quivered out into the evil atmosphere of the apartment, it was followed by a second and a third. A strange effect was produced on all the listeners by the trembling voice of the singer. Bubb gaped stupidly, his eyes fixed on the roof, as he rubbed his chin with the fingers of his right hand. The sergeant drew himself up and listened, fascinated. Fitzgerald's song was the song of a soul condemned to inevitable sorrow; there was not a relieving touch, not a glow of hope, it was the song of a damned soul.
"Oh, the praties they are small
Over here.
Oh, the praties they are small
Over here.
The praties they are small
And we ate them skins and all,
Aye, and long afore the Fall,
Over here.
No help in hour of need
Over here.
And God won't pay much heed
Over here.
Then whisht! Or He'll take heed
And He'll rot the pratie seed
And send other mouths to feed
Over here.
I wish I was a duck
Over here.
To be eating clay and muck
Over here.
I'd sooner ... sooner ... I'd sooner...."