“It was me, sir,” answered Shaw. “I wanted some of that wood myself!”
“Well,” said the lieutenant good-naturedly, “you stand a mighty poor chance to get any of it now.” And just as he spoke and straightened up a little, ping! came a bullet that passed through the officer’s hat.
“The imperdence of the divil!” said Pat; “sure, Lieutenant, are ye hurted?”
The lieutenant was mad, and walked away growling under his breath without reply.
In a few moments, bang! bang! bang! bang! went our light guns; and then came replies from the enemy that boded ill for quiet times, for the Boche guns, speaking from their hiding places, seemed likely to reach us in our burrows.
One great eight-inch shot struck near our parapet, exploding with a crashing roar, breaking a broad path through the barbed-wire barricade and leaving a hole big enough to bury a whole platoon.
“Faith, is that phat they call a Jack Johnson?” said Quinn, “or is it a little light-weight fellow?”
Our French officer was understood to say that it was the latter. Peter Beaudett, during the firing, had been struck by a small piece of spent shell, which knocked him over while barely breaking the skin of his jaws. He “rustled” as Shaw declared “like a hen with its head cut off;” then, finding that he was not killed, though two of his teeth had been knocked out, he angrily shook his fist towards the enemy, crying out: “Py tam! I no like your doctor pulls my teeth; I fight you now, by tam!”
We had got our lesson, that two can play at a dangerous game; and after this the opposing lines settled down for a while, to comparative peace and quiet.
Such was our introduction to trench warfare, on the front line, which finally grew in intensity and became exciting and dangerous enough to satisfy the most enterprising Yankee. Even this first experience, however, had convinced us that there were worse discomforts than rain, snow, or mud.