This extended attack was too much for the Huns, who thought the whole line was advancing and decamped. The moon peeped out again as they were going off, and the Subaltern, Corporal and the two men accounted for at least half a dozen of them. These dark figures which rolled up like rabbits were the first Germans the Chicken had seen.
The Subaltern entered the house with the two privates and sent the Corporal back to tell the Colonel that we were in possession. He had taken a rather important Observation Post marked 2.22 on the map.
I had some of the story from the boy and some from the Colonel, but I will let the boy finish it.
"The next day we had some burying," he said. "From the new post we could send out patrols to bring in our fellows who had been knocked out on the 12th. You won't mind me talking about things which make you feel a bit squeamish, will you, Sir?"—the boy called everybody above the age of forty "Sir"—"Tell me to shut up if it is too beastly; but, you see, most of these bodies had been out for six weeks and were more or less decomposed. We dug a shallow trench towards them, threw out a hook on a bit of rope and drew them in. We had to find their identification discs. It was not a pleasant business taking off a man's shirt and not always easy, and my Corporal being sick every minute didn't help things either. I generally went for their pockets for letters; that was easier, but ..." I omit here some details which are too unpleasant to print. "The Corporal with his weak stomach was a bit of a nuisance, especially at night, for if the Germans heard him they would send up a flare."
Then he told me about a frontal attack at Loos. The Chicken had seen and suffered more and lived more in six months in France, and done more for England than I had in two score odd years. He was clearly a born soldier. He was happy in the regiment and quite one of them—one of the new incarnation at least who approximate in some ways to the old. I could not see what more he desired.
"You really think of throwing up the army after the war?" I asked. The Chicken turned on me the wistful smile that talk of "after the war" evoked among the sanguine at the time. "In war time of course everybody has got to be a soldier," he said, "but in peace time—no thank you!"
"But what are you going to do?"
"Anything, but inspect meat and tunic buttons. Something that counts. I suppose I shall go into the Bar or Parliament."
I would have asked him if he really thought these talking shops counted more than the Perthshires; but the pipes were coming in again and they were playing the regimental slogan. It gave one the most extraordinary feeling in the pit of one's stomach and all down one's back.
"I'm not sure, though," the boy said ingenuously when they had gone out, "I may stick to the regiment on the chance of another show."