"Irish?" I asked. (p. 084)
"Sure," was the answer. "We're everywhere. Ye'll find us in a Gurkha
regiment if you scratch the beggars' skins. Ye're not Irish!"
"I am," I answered.
"Then you've lost your brogue on the boat that took ye over," somebody
said. "Are ye dry?"
I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I sat down on the banquette. "Is
there something to drink?" I queried.
"There's a drop of cold tay, me boy," the man near me replied.
"Where's yer mess-tin, Mike?"
A tin was handed to me, and I drank greedily of the cold black tea.
The man Mike gave some useful hints on trench work.
"It's the Saxons that's across the road," he said, pointing to the
enemy's lines which were very silent. I had not heard a bullet whistle
over since I entered the trench. On the left was an interesting rifle
and machine gun fire all the time. "They're quiet fellows, the Saxons,
they don't want to fight any more than we do, so there's a kind of
understanding between us. Don't fire at us and we'll not fire at you.
There's a good dug-out there," he continued, pointing to a dark (p. 085)
hole in the parados (the rear wall of the trench), "and ye'll find a
pot of jam and half a loaf in the corner. There's also a water jar
half full."
"Where do you get water?"
"Nearly a mile away the pump is," he answered. "Ye've to cross the
fields to get it."
"A safe road?" asked Stoner.
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