The same shell (pipsqueaks we call them) striking the roof of one of
our trench dug-outs would blow us all to atoms.
The dug-out is not peculiar to the trench. For miles back from the
firing-line the country is a world of dug-outs; they are everywhere,
by the roadsides, the canals, and farmhouses, in the fields, the (p. 118)
streets, and the gardens. Cellars serve for the same purpose. A fortnight
ago my section was billeted in a house in a mining town, and the enemy
began to shell the place about midnight. Bootless, half-naked, and
half-asleep, we hurried into the cellar. The place was a regular Black
Hole of Calcutta. It was very small, damp, and smelt of queer things,
and there were six soldiers, the man of the house, his wife, and seven
children, one a sucking babe two months old, cooped up in the place.
I did not like the place--in fact, I seldom like any dug-out, it
reminds me of the grave, the covering earth, and worms, and always
there is a feeling of suffocation. But I have enjoyed my stay in one
or two. There was a delightful little one, made for a single soldier,
in which I stayed. At night when off sentry, and when I did not feel
like sleeping, I read. Over my head I cut a niche in the mud, placed
my candle there, pulled down over the door my curtain, a real good
curtain, taken from some neighbouring chateau, spent a few moments
watching the play of light and shadows on the roof, and listening to
the sound of guns outside, then lit a cigarette and read.
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