Then he came back to
breakfast in his dugout with a hearty appetite.
In one section of trenches the men made a habit of betting upon those
who would be wounded first. It had all the uncertainty of the
roulette-table. . . One day, when the German gunners were putting over
a special dose of hate, a sergeant kept coming to one dugout to
inquire about a "new chum," who had come up with the drafts.
"Is Private Smith all right?" he asked.
"Yes, Sergeant, he's all right," answered the men crouching in the
dark hole.
"Private Smith isn't wounded yet?" asked the, sergeant again, five
minutes later.
"No, Sergeant."
Private Smith was touched by this interest in his well-being.
"That sergeant seems a very kind man," said the boy. "Seems to love me
like a father!"
A yell of laughter answered him.
"You poor, bleeding fool!" said one of his comrades. "He's drawn you
in a lottery! Stood to win if you'd been hit."
In digging new trenches and new dugouts, bodies and bits of bodies
were unearthed, and put into sand-bags with the soil that was sent
back down a line of men concealing their work from German eyes waiting
for any new activity in our ditches.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252