Yer 'ere and the sandbags is there, you never see
anything, and you've to fire at nothin'. They call this war. Strike me
ginger if it's like the pictures in _The Daily ----_; them papers is
great liars!"
"Do you want to kill men?" I asked.
"What am I here for?" was the rejoinder, "If I don't kill them they'll
kill me."
No trench is straight at any place; the straight line is done away
with in the makeup of a trench. The traverse, jutting out in a sharp
angle to the rear, gives way in turn to the fire position, curving
towards the enemy, and there is never more than twelve yards liable to
be covered by enfilade fire. The traverse is the home of spare
ammunition, of ball cartridge, bombs, and hand-grenades. These are
stored in depots dug into the wall of the trench. There are two things
which find a place anywhere and everywhere, the biscuit and the bully
beef. Tins of both are heaped in the trenches; sometimes they are used
for building dug-outs and filling revetements. Bully beef and biscuits
are seldom eaten; goodness knows why we are supplied with them.
We came into the territory of another battalion, and were met by (p. 104)
an officer.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"For water, sir," said Pryor.
"Have you got permission from your captain?"
"No, sir."
"Then you cannot get by here without it. It's a Brigade order," said
the officer. "One of our men got shot through the head yesterday when
going for water.
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