We killed no birds, we saw none, although we stopped out till the
colour of dawn splashed the sky with streaks of early light. As we
went in by the door of our billet the monster of the thicket was still
at work, although no answering shells sped up from the enemy's lines.
Up in the loft Z---- was snoring loudly as he lay asleep on the straw,
the blanket tight round his body, his jaw hanging loosely, and (p. 137)
an unlighted pipe on the floor by his side. Placing our rifles on the
rack, Bill and I took off our bandoliers and lay down on our blankets.
Presently we were asleep.
That was how Bill and I shot wild duck in the marshes near the village
of--Somewhere in France.
CHAPTER XI (p. 138)
THE MAN WITH THE ROSARY
There's a tramp o' feet in the mornin',
There's an oath from an N.C.O.,
As up the road to the trenches
The brown battalions go:
Guns and rifles and waggons,
Transports and horses and men,
Up with the flush of the dawnin',
And back with the night again.
Sometimes when our spell in the trenches comes to an end we go back
for a rest in some village or town. Here the _estaminet_ or _debitant_
(French as far as I am aware for a beer shop), is open to the British
soldier for three hours daily, from twelve to one and from six to
eight o'clock. For some strange reason we often find ourselves busy on
parade at these hours, and when not on parade we generally find
ourselves without money.
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