A Night of Horror
'Tis only a dream in the trenches,
Told when the shadows creep,
Over the friendly sandbags
When men in the dug-outs sleep.
This is the tale of the trenches
Told when the shadows fall,
By little Hughie of Dooran,
Over from Donegal.
On the noon following the journey to the village I was sent back to the Keep; that night our company went into the firing trench again. We were all pleased to get there; any place was preferable to the block of buildings in which we had lost so many of our boys. On the night after our departure, two Engineers who were working at the Keep could not find sleeping place in the dug-outs, and they slept on the spot where I made my bed the first night I was there. In the early morning a shell struck the wall behind them and the poor fellows were blown to atoms.
For three days we stayed in the trenches, narrow, suffocating and damp places, where parados and parapet almost touched and where it was well-nigh impossible for two men to pass. Food was not plentiful here, all the time we lived on bully beef and biscuits; our tea ran short and on the second day we had to drink water at our meals. From our banquette it was almost impossible to see the enemy's position; the growing grass well nigh hid their lines; occasionally by standing tiptoed on the banquette we could catch a glimpse of white sandbags looking for all the world like linen spread out to dry on the grass. But the Germans did not forget that we were near, pipsqueaks, rifle grenades, bombs and bullets came our way with aggravating persistence. It was believed that the Prussians, spiteful beggars that they are, occupied the position opposite. In these trenches the dug-outs were few and far between; we slept very little.
On the second night I was standing sentry on the banquette. My watch extended from twelve to one, the hour when the air is raw and the smell of the battle line is penetrating. The night was pitch black; in ponds and stagnant streams in the vicinity frogs were chuckling. Their hoarse clucking could be heard all round; when the star-shells flew up I could catch vague glimpses of the enemy's sandbags and the line of tall shrapnel-swept trees which ran in front of his trenches. The sleep was heavy in my eyes; time and again I dozed off for a second only to wake up as a shell burst in front or swept by my head. It seemed impossible to remain awake, often I jumped down to the floor of the trench, raced along for a few yards, then back to the banquette and up to the post beside my bayonet.
One moment of quiet and I dropped into a light sleep. I punched my hands against the sandbags until they bled; the whizz of the shells passed like ghosts above me; slumber sought me and strove to hold me captive. I had dreams; a village standing on a hill behind the opposite trench became peopled; it was summer and the work of haying and harvesting went on. The men went out to the meadows with long-handled scythes and mowed the grass down in great swathes. I walked along a lane leading to the field and stopped at the stile and looked in. A tall youth who seemed strangely familiar was mowing. The sweat streamed down his face and bare chest. His shirt was folded neatly back and his sleeves were thrust up almost to the shoulders.
The work did not come easy to him; he always followed the first sweep of the scythe with a second which cropped the grass very close to the ground. For an expert mower the second stroke is unnecessary; the youngster had not learned to put a keen edge on the blade. I wanted to explain to him the best way to use the sharping stone, but I felt powerless to move: I could only remain at the stile looking on. Sometimes he raised his head and looked in my direction, but took no notice of me. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? I called out to him but he took no notice. I tried to change my position, succeeded and crossed the stile. When I came close to him, he spoke.
"You were long in coming," he said, and I saw it was my brother, a youngster of eighteen.
"I went to the well for a jug of water," I said, "But it's dry now and the three trout are dead at the bottom."
"'Twas because we didn't put a cross of green rushes over it last Candlemas Eve," he remarked. "You should have made one then, but you didn't. Can you put an edge on the scythe?" he asked.