I plunged into impromptu verse.
I lie as still as a sandbag in my dug-out shrapnel proof,
My candle shines in the corner, and the shadows dance on the roof,
Far from the blood-stained trenches, and far from the scenes of war,
My thoughts go back to a maiden, my own little guiding star.
"That's 'ot stuff," said Bill.
I was on the point of starting a fresh verse when the low rumble of an approaching shell was heard; a messenger of death from a great German gun out at La Bassée. This gun was no stranger to us; he often played havoc with the Keep; it was he who blew in the wall a few nights before and killed the two Engineers. The missile he flung moved slowly and could not keep pace with its own sound. Five seconds before it arrived we could hear it coming, a slow, certain horror, sure of its mission and steady to its purpose. The big gun at La Bassée was shelling the communication trench, endeavouring to stop reinforcements from getting up to the firing lines and the red field between.
The shell burst about fifty yards away and threw a shower of dirt over us. There was a precipitate flop, a falling backwards and forwards and all became messed up in an intricate jumble of flesh, equipment, clothing and rifles in the bottom of the trench. A swarm of "bees" buzzed overhead, a few dropped into the trench and Pryor who gripped one with his hand swore under his breath. The splinter was almost red-hot.
The trench was voluble.
"I'm chokin'; get off me tummy."
"Your boot's on my face."
"Nobody struck?"