His answer made me sorry I spoke.
"I was just thinking," said he, "that my number is up."
This is an expression of the men on the Western Front when they have a premonition that their time on earth is short. A sudden fear smote me, but I banished the thought and started jollying him profanely.
"Now, Corporal, you know what damn nonsense it is to talk that way! Do you want to wish it on yourself?"
"No, Grant, I should say not, but I can't help thinking it, all the same."
"Yes, Lawrence," said McLean. "For God's sake don't wish any trouble on us more than we have got."
Billy McLean was my dearest pal; we had enlisted together and had formed one of those attachments that men sometimes make and is only severed by death, and we shared each other's most intimate thoughts. The words had scarcely died on McLean's lips when—Woo-o-f! Bang! Bang! and shells commenced to land all about us.
The spot we had selected to rest on was under observation; Fritz had evidently become aware of the fact that it was our usual course in coming to the trench and had registered the place for a target, just as he registered battery roads, ammunition depots, railway heads, sleeping quarters,—everywhere and anywhere that exhibited a trace of life immediately became an observation target and was subject to a hail of shell and shrapnel any hour of the day or night.
We were all slightly stunned by the dose, but recovered our senses in a minute or so.
"All right, fellows, let's be going," I said, and up we jumped, all except Lawrence.