Part 15 (2/2)

That working-party, filling sandbags just behind the machine-gun emplacement, are actually singing. Spring gets into the blood, even in this stricken land. The Boche over the way resents our efforts at harmony.

Sing us a song, a song of Bonnie Scotland!

Any old song will do.

By the old camp-fire, the rough-and-ready choir Join in the chorus too.

”You'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road”-- 'Tis a song that we all know, To bring back the days in Bonnie Scotland, Where the heather and the bluebells--

_Whang_!

The Boche, a Wagnerian by birth and upbringing, cannot stand any more of this, so he has fired a rifle-grenade at the glee-party--on the whole a much more honest and direct method of condemnation than that practiced by musical critics in time of peace. But he only elicits an encore. Private Nigg perches a steel helmet on the point of a bayonet, and patronisingly bobs the same up and down above the parapet.

These steel helmets have not previously been introduced to the reader's notice. They are modelled upon those worn in the French Army--and bear about as much resemblance to the original pattern as a Thames barge to a racing yacht. When first issued, they were greeted with profound suspicion. Though undoubtedly serviceable,--they saved many a crown from cracking round The Bluff the other day,--they were undeniably heavy, and they were certainly not becoming to the peculiar type of beauty rampant in ”K(1).” On issue, then, their recipients elected to regard the wearing of them as a peculiarly noxious form of ”fatigue.” Private M'A. deposited his upon the parapet, like a foundling on a doorstep, and departed stealthily round the nearest traverse, to report his new headpiece ”lost through the exigencies of military service.” Private M'B. wore his insecurely perched upon the top of his tam-o'-shanter bonnet, where it looked like a very large ostrich egg in a very small khaki nest. Private M'C. set his up on a convenient post, and opened rapid fire upon it at a range of six yards, surveying the resulting holes with the gloomy satisfaction of the vindicated pessimist. Private M'D. removed the lining from his, and performed his ablutions in the inverted crown.

”This,” said Colonel Kemp, ”will never do. We must start wearing the dashed things ourselves.”

And it was so. Next day, to the joy of the Battalion, their officers appeared in the trenches selfconsciously wearing what looked like small sky-blue wash-hand basins balanced upon their heads. But discipline was excellent. No one even smiled. In fact, there was a slight reaction in favour of the helmets. Conversations like the following were overheard:--

”I'm tellin' you, Jimmy, the C.O. is no the man for tae mak' a show of himself like that for naething. These tin bunnets must be some use.

Wull we pit oors on?”

”Awa' hame, and bile your held!” replied the unresponsive James.

”They'll no stop a whish-bang,” conceded the apostle of progress, ”but they would keep off splunters, and a wheen bullets, and--and--”

”And the rain!” supplied Jimmy sarcastically.

This gibe suddenly roused the temper of the other partic.i.p.ant in the debate.

”I tell you,” he exclaimed, in a voice shrill with indignation, ”that these ---- helmets are some ---- use!”

”And I tell _you_,” retorted James earnestly, ”that these ---- helmets are no ---- ---- use!”

When two reasonable persons arrive at a controversial _impa.s.se_, they usually agree to differ and go their several ways. But in ”K(1)” we prefer practical solutions. The upholder of helmets hastily thrust his upon his head.

”I'll show you, Jimmy!” he announced, and clambered up on the firing-step.

”And I'll ---- well show _you_, Wullie!” screamed James, doing likewise.

Simultaneously the two zealots thrust their heads over the parapet, and awaited results. These came. The rifles of two Boche snipers rang out, and both demonstrators fell heavily backwards into the arms of their supporters.

By all rights they ought to have been killed. But they were both very much alive. Each turned to the other triumphantly, and exclaimed,--

”I tellt ye so!”

There was a hole right through the helmet of Jimmy, the unbeliever.

The fact that there was not also a hole through his head was due to his forethought in having put on a tam-o'-shanter underneath. The net result was a truncated ”toorie.” Wullie's bullet had struck his helmet at a more obtuse angle, and had glanced off, as the designer of the smooth exterior had intended it to do.

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