But
their work went for nothing: the battery had changed its position the
night previous to the attack. Had it remained there neither man nor
gun would have escaped.
The communication trench we found to be one of the widest we had ever
seen; a handbarrow could have been wheeled along the floor. At
several points the trench was roofed with heavy pit-props and sandbags
proof against any shrapnel fire. It was an easy trench to march in,
and we needed all the ease possible. The sweat poured from every pore,
down our faces, our arms and legs, our packs seemed filled with lead,
our haversacks rubbing against our hips felt like sand paper; the
whole march was a nightmare. The water we carried got hot in our
bottles and became almost undrinkable. In the reserve trench we got
some tea, a godsend to us all.
We had just stepped into a long, dark, pit-prop-roofed tunnel and (p. 241)
the light of the outer world made us blind. I shuffled up against a
man who was sitting on one side, righted myself and stumbled against
the knees of another who sat on a seat opposite.
"Will ye have a wee drop of tay, my man?" a voice asked, an Irish
voice, a voice that breathed of the North of Ireland. I tried to see
things, but could not. I rubbed my eyes and had a vision of an arm
stretching towards me; a hand and a mess tin. I drank the tea
greedily.
"There's a lot of you ones comin' up," the voice said. "You ones!" How
often have I said "You ones," how often do I say it still when I'm too
excited to be grammatical.
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