"What did you fire at?" I asked.
"The blasted searchlight," he replied, rubbing his little potato of a nose. "That's one for 'em, another shot nearer the end of the war!"
"Did you hit it?" asked our corporal.
"I must 'ave 'it it, I fired straight at it."
"Splendid, splendid," said the corporal. "Its only about three miles away though."
"Oh, blimey!..."
Sentries were posted for the night, one hour on and two off for each man until dawn. I was sentry for the first hour. I had to keep a sharp look out if an enemy's working party showed itself when the rockets went up. I was to fire at it and kill as many men as possible. One thinks of things on sentry-go.
"How can I reconcile myself to this," I asked, shifting my rifle to get nearer the parapet. "Who are those men behind the line of sandbags that I should want to kill them, to disembowel them with my sword, blow their faces to pieces at three hundred yards, bomb them into eternity at a word of command. Who am I that I should do it; what have they done to me to incur my wrath? I am not angry with them; I know little of the race; they are utter strangers to me; what am I to think, why should I think?
"Bill," I called to the Cockney, who came by whistling, "what are you doing?"
"I'm havin' a bit of rooty (food) 'fore goin' to kip (sleep)."