Swish! and my
bayonet went through the man in front and stabbed the identity disc of
another. When I drew the bayonet out the butt of my 'ipe[3] would 'it
a man behind me in the tummy. Ugh! 'e would say and flop bringing a
mate down with 'im may be. The dead was all round me and I built a
parapet of their bodies, puttin' the legs criss-cross and makin' loop
'oles. Then they began to bomb me from the other side. 'Twas gettin'
'ot I tell you and I began to think of my 'ome; the dug-out in (p. 220)
the trench. What was I to do? If I crossed the open they'd bring me
down with a bullet. There was only one thing to be done. I had my
boots on me for three 'ole weeks of 'ot weather, 'otter than this and
beer not so near as it is now----"
[Footnote 3: Rifle.]
"Have another drink, Bill?" I asked.
"Glad yer took the 'int," said my mate. "Story tellin's a dry fatigue.
Well as I was sayin' my socks 'ad been on for a 'ole month----"
"Three weeks," I corrected.
"Three weeks," Bill repeated and continued. "I took orf my boots.
'Respirators!' the Germans yelled the minute my socks were bare, and
off they went leavin' me there with my 'ome-made trench. When I came
back I got a dose of C.B. as I've told you before."
We went back to our billet. In the farmyard the pigs were busy on the
midden, and they looked at us with curious expressive eyes that peered
roguishly out from under their heavy hanging cabbage-leaves of ears.
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