"Like a blurry 'oss. But Stoner's all right," said Bill. Stoner was all right; somebody had dug a little burrow at the base of the traverse and he was lying there already asleep.
We stood in the trench till eight o'clock almost suffocated. It was impossible for the company to spread out, on the right we were touching the supports, on the left was a communication trench leading to the point of attack, and this was occupied by part of another battalion. We were hemmed in on all sides, a compressed company in full marching order with many extra rounds of ammunition and empty stomachs.
I was telling a story to the boys, one that Pryor and Goliath gave credence to, but which the others refused to believe. It was a tale of two trench-mortars, squat little things that loiter about the firing line and look for all the world like toads ready to hop off. I came on two of these the night before, crept on them unawares and found them speaking to one another.
"Nark it, Pat," muttered Bill lighting a cigarette. "Them talking. Git out!"
"Of course you don't understand," I said. "The trench-mortar has a soul, a mind and great discrimination," I told him.
"What's a bomb?" asked Bill.
"'Tis the soul finding expression. Last night they were speaking, as I have said. They had a wonderful plan in hand. They decided to steal away and drink a bottle of wine in Givenchy."
"Blimey!"
"They did not know the way out and at that moment up comes Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran; in his sea-green bonnet, his salmon-pink coat, and buff tint breeches and silver shoon and mounted one of the howitzers and off they went as fast as the wind to the wineshop at Givenchy."
"Oo's 'Ughie what dy'e call 'im of that place?"