Our officer
read out orders.
"The ---- Brigade is going to make an attack on the enemy's position
at 6.30 this evening. Our battalion is to take part in the attack by
supporting with rifle fire."
Two of our companies were in the firing line; one was in support and
we were reserves; we had to remain in the trench packed up like
herrings, and await further instructions. The enemy knew the
communication trench; they had got the range months before and at one
time the trench was occupied by them.
We got into the trench at the time when the attack took place; our
artillery was now silent and rapid rifle fire went on in front; a life
and death struggle was in progress there. In our trench it was very
quiet, we were packed tight as the queue at the gallery door of a
cheap music-hall on a Saturday night.
"Blimey, a balmy this!" said Bill making frantic efforts to squash my
toes in his desire to find a fair resting place for his feet. (p. 186)
"I'm 'ungry. Call this the best fed army in the world. Dog and maggot
all the bloomin' time. I need all the hemery paper given to clean my
bayonet, to sharpen my teeth to eat the stuff. How are we goin' to
sleep this night, Pat?"
"Standing."
"Like a blurry 'oss. But Stoner's all right," said Bill. Stoner was
all right; somebody had dug a little burrow at the base of the
traverse and he was lying there already asleep.
We stood in the trench till eight o'clock almost suffocated.
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