On
the whole, however, conditions were very much less worse than wading in
the water up to one's waist, which was our common lot in the earlier
days of the war. As one of our wags had it, "Mud under me, water around
me and hell above me."
[Footnote 1: _A dead shell is one that explodes at a predetermined time
after it strikes--from one minute to several hours._]
For nearly a month Fritz had been inordinately busy with his "dead"
shells; we had no rest from his activities. If there was an interval of
time when we were not being served with the "dead" messages, the hiatus
was filled with whiz-bangs and gas. Whichever his fancy dictated, for us
it was the Devil's choice.
Following orders, under the friendly shelter of night's curtain, I was
leading my squad to our gun positions in the front line, about three
miles distant, and in slipping and sliding over the muddy ground, pitted
with holes in such a manner as to suggest to one's mind that the earth's
surface had been scourged with an attack of elephantine smallpox, we
could not help chuckling, in spite of the discomforts of our journey, at
the ejaculation of a Cockney Tommy: "Strike me pink, Sergeant, but Fritz
would think we was his pals if he only saw this goose-step work.
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