A French
soldier who stood in a near doorway pulled the cigarette from his
bearded lips, pointed it at the dead animal, and laughed. A comrade
who was with him shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"That dashed sniper again!" said the R.E. officer.
"Where is he?" somebody asked innocently.
"I wish we knew," said the officer. "He's behind our lines somewhere,
and has been at this game for weeks. Keep clear of the roadway!" he
cried, as another bullet swept through the air, and struck the wall
over the head of the laughing Frenchman, who was busily rolling (p. 063)
a fresh cigarette.
Four of our men stopped behind to bury the dog, the rest of us found
our way into the communication trench. A signboard at the entrance,
with the words "To Berlin," stated in trenchant words underneath,
"This way to the war."
The communication trench, sloping down from the roadway, was a narrow
cutting dug into the cold, glutinous earth, and at every fifty paces
in alternate sides a manhole, capable of holding a soldier with full
equipment, was hollowed out in the clay. In front shells were exploding,
and now and again shrapnel bullets and casing splinters sung over our
heads, for the most part delving into the field on either side, but
sometimes they struck the parapets and dislodged a pile of earth and
dust, which fell on the floor of the trench. The floor was paved with
bricks, swept clean, and almost free from dirt; there was a general
air of cleanliness about the place, the level floor, the smooth sides,
and the well-formed parapets.
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