Part 26 (1/2)

I have been at it for over six months without a rest. When an attack has been going on I have worked day and night, until as I drove I wanted to fall asleep at the wheel.

The winter has been trying; there is rain one day, frost the next. Mud up to the axles. One sleeps in lousy barns or dripping dugouts. Cold, hunger, dirt, I know them all singly and together. My only consolation is that the war must soon be over, and that I will have helped. When I have time and am not too tired, I comfort myself with scribbling.

The b.o.o.by-Trap

I'm crawlin' out in the mangolds to bury wot's left o' Joe-- Joe, my pal, and a good un (G.o.d! 'ow it rains and rains).

I'm sick o' seein' him lyin' like a 'eap o' offal, and so I'm crawlin' out in the beet-field to bury 'is last remains.

'E might 'a bin makin' munitions--'e 'adn't no need to go; An' I tells 'im strite, but 'e arnsers, ”'Tain't no use chewin' the fat; I've got to be doin' me dooty wiv the rest o' the boys” . . . an' so Yon's 'im, yon blob on the beet-field wot I'm tryin' so 'ard to git at.

There was five of us lads from the brickyard; 'Enry was ga.s.sed at Bapome, Sydney was drowned in a crater, 'Erbert was 'alved by a sh.e.l.l; Joe was the pick o' the posy, might 'a bin sifely at 'ome, Only son of 'is mother, 'er a widder as well.

She used to sell bobbins and b.u.t.tons--'ad a plice near the Waterloo Road; A little, old, bent-over lydy, wiv gla.s.ses an' silvery 'air; Must tell 'er I planted 'im nicely, cheer 'er up like. . . . (Well, I'm blowed, That bullet near catched me a biffer)--I'll see the old gel if I'm spared.

She'll tike it to 'eart, pore ol' lydy, fer 'e was 'er 'ope and 'er joy; 'Is dad used to drink like a knot-'ole, she kept the 'ome goin', she did: She pinched and she scriped fer 'is scoolin', 'e was sich a fine 'andsome boy ('Alf Flanders seems packed on me panties)-- 'e's 'andsome no longer, pore kid!

This bit o' a board that I'm packin' and draggin' around in the mire, I was tickled to death when I found it. Says I, ”'Ere's a nice little glow.”

I was chilled and wet through to the marrer, so I started to make me a fire; And then I says: ”No; 'ere, Goblimy, it'll do for a cross for Joe.”

Well, 'ere 'e is. Gawd! 'Ow one chinges a-lyin' six weeks in the rain.

Joe, me old pal, 'ow I'm sorry; so 'elp me, I wish I could pray.

An' now I 'ad best get a-diggin' 'is grave (it seems more like a drain)-- And I 'opes that the Boches won't git me till I gits 'im safe planted away.

(_As he touches the body there is a tremendous explosion.

He falls back shattered._)

A b.o.o.by-trap! Ought to 'a known it! If that's not a b.a.s.t.a.r.dly trick!

Well, one thing, I won't be long goin'. Gawd! I'm a 'ell of a sight.

Wish I'd died fightin' and killin'; that's wot it is makes me sick. . . .

Ah, Joe! we'll be pus.h.i.+n' up dysies . . .

together, old Chummie . . . good-night!

To-day I heard that MacBean had been killed in Belgium. I believe he turned out a wonderful soldier. Saxon Dane, too, has been missing for two months. We know what that means.

It is odd how one gets callous to death, a mediaeval callousness. When we hear that the best of our friends have gone West, we have a moment of the keenest regret; but how soon again we find the heart to laugh! The saddest part of loss, I think, is that one so soon gets over it.

Is it that we fail to realize it all? Is it that it seems a strange and hideous dream, from which we will awake and rub our eyes?

Oh, how bitter I feel as the days go by! It is creeping more and more into my verse. Read this:

Bonehead Bill