It was
impossible for the company to spread out, on the right we were
touching the supports, on the left was a communication trench leading
to the point of attack, and this was occupied by part of another
battalion. We were hemmed in on all sides, a compressed company in
full marching order with many extra rounds of ammunition and empty
stomachs.
I was telling a story to the boys, one that Pryor and Goliath gave
credence to, but which the others refused to believe. It was a tale of
two trench-mortars, squat little things that loiter about the firing
line and look for all the world like toads ready to hop off. I came on
two of these the night before, crept on them unawares and found (p. 187)
them speaking to one another.
"Nark it, Pat," muttered Bill lighting a cigarette. "Them talking. Git
out!"
"Of course you don't understand," I said. "The trench-mortar has a
soul, a mind and great discrimination," I told him.
"What's a bomb?" asked Bill.
"'Tis the soul finding expression. Last night they were speaking, as I
have said. They had a wonderful plan in hand. They decided to steal
away and drink a bottle of wine in Givenchy."
"Blimey!"
"They did not know the way out and at that moment up comes Wee Hughie
Gallagher of Dooran; in his sea-green bonnet, his salmon-pink coat,
and buff tint breeches and silver shoon and mounted one of the
howitzers and off they went as fast as the wind to the wineshop at
Givenchy.
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