At every turn where the
parados opened to the rear they stared you in the face, the damp,
clammy, black mounds of clay with white crosses over them. Always the
story was the same; the rude inscription told of the same tragedy: a
soldier had been killed in action on a certain date. He might have
been an officer, otherwise he was a private, a being with a name and
number; now lying cold and silent by the trench in which he died
fighting. His mates had placed little bunches of flowers on his grave.
Then his regiment moved off and the flowers faded. In some cases the
man's cap was left on the black earth, where the little blades of
kindly grass were now covering it up.
Most of the trench-dwellers were up and about, a few were cooking late
breakfasts, and some were washing. Contrary to orders, they had stripped
to the waist as they bent over their little mess-tins of soapy (p. 101)
water; all the boys seemed familiar with trench routine. They were deep
in argument at the door of one dug-out, and almost came to blows. The
row was about rations. A light-limbed youth, with sloping shoulders,
had thrown a loaf away when coming up to the trenches. He said his
pack was heavy enough without the bread. His mates were very angry
with him.
"Throwin' the grub away!" one of them said. "Blimey, to do a thing
like that! Get out, Spud 'Iggles!"
"Why didn't yer carry the rooty yourself?"
"Would one of us not carry it?"
"Would yer! Why didn't ye take it then?"
"Why didn't ye give it to us?"
"Blimey, listen to yer jor!" said Spud Higgles, the youth with the
sloping shoulders.
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