“The papers are nothin’ but lyin’ rags,” said Moloney.
“I believe ye,” said Finnessy.
Viciously whistled the bullets across the top of the trench, and a shell or two whined overhead, unheeded by the comrades, long accustomed to the sound.
“But I’m not denyin’,” said Finnessy, after a pause, “that the little brown cross is a great timptation to anny girl.”
“It is that!” agreed Moloney.
· · · · · · ·
“At five o’clock!” the whisper ran along the trench. Since three o’clock the guns massed on the hills behind them had been sending a shrieking death-storm into the enemy’s trenches in front of the Irish Guards. At five, promptly, the storm of shell would cease. At a given signal the men would clamber out over the parapet, make their way through the openings in the wire entanglements, and rush the trenches before them. There was no outward excitement. The aspect of the men remained unchanged, but one could feel the nervous tension. A young subaltern, near Finnessy and Moloney, glanced occasionally at his wrist watch and smoked his cigarette more rapidly than usual.
“If he falls,” whispered Finnessy to Moloney, “’tis mesilf that will bring him in.”
“You will not,” said Moloney, “I’ve had me eye on him f’r wakes!”
“Ye can have the Major,” said Finnessy.