trench, crackled and crashed above the German line, dotted the German
parapet along its length, played up and down it in long bursts of fire,
and deluged the suspected hiding-place of the mortar with a torrent of
high explosive. When it stopped, the bombing also had stopped for that
day.

The French infantry did not wait for the ceasing of the artillery fire.
They gathered themselves and their belongings and recommenced to move
as soon as the guns began to speak.

"Feenish!" as one of them said, placing a finger on the ground, lifting
it in a long curve, twirling it over and over and downward again in
imitation of a falling bomb. "Ze soixante-quinze speak,
bang-bang-bang!" and his fist jerked out four blows in a row.
"Feenish!" he concluded, holding a hand out towards the German lines
and making a motion of rubbing something off the slate. Plainly they
were very proud of their artillery, and the Towers caught that word
"soixante-quinze" in every tone of pleasure, pride, and satisfaction.
But as Private Robinson said, "I don't wonder at it. Cans is a good
name, but can-an'-does would be a better."

When the last of the Frenchmen had gone, the Towers completed their
settling in and making themselves comfortable in the vacated quarters.
The greatest care was taken to avoid any man showing a British cap or
uniform. "Snapper" Brown, urged by the public-spirited 'Enery Irving,
exhausted himself in playing the "Marseillaise" at the fullest pitch of
his lungs and mouth-organ. His artistic soul revolted at last at the
repetition, but since the only other French tune that was suggested was
the Blue Danube Waltz, and there appeared to be divergent opinions as
to its nationality, "Snapper" at last struck, and refused to play the
"Marseillaise" a single time more. 'Enery Irving enthusiastically took
up this matter of "acting so as to deceive the Germans."

"Act!" he said. "If I'd a make-up box and a false mustache 'ere, I'd
act so as to cheat the French President 'imself, much less a parcel of
beer-swilling Germs."

The German trenches were too far away to allow of any conversation, but
'Enery secured a board, wrote on it in large letters "Veev la France,"
and displayed it over the parapet. After the Germans had signified
their notice of the sentiment by firing a dozen shots at it, 'Enery
replaced it by a fresh one, "A baa la Bosh." This notice was left
standing, but to 'Enery's annoyance the Germans displayed in return a
board which said in plain English, "Good morning." "Ain't that a knock
out," said 'Enery disgustedly. "Much use me acting to deceive the
Germans if some silly blighter in another bit o' the line goes and
gives the game away."

Throughout the rest of the day he endeavored to confuse the German's
evident information by the display of the French cap and of French
sentences on the board like "Bong jewr," "Bong nwee," and "Mercridi,"
which he told the others was the French for a day of the week, the
spelling being correct as he knew because he had seen it written down,
and the day indicated, he believed, being Wednesday--or Thursday. "And
that's near enough," he said, "because to-day is Wednesday, and if
Mercridi means Wednesday, they'll think I'm signaling 'to-day'; and if
it means Thursday, they'll think I'm talking about to-morrow." All
doubts of the German's knowledge appeared to be removed, however, by
their next notice, which stated plainly, "You are Englander." To that
'Enery, his French having failed him, could only retort by a drawing of
outstretched fingers and a thumb placed against a prominent nose on an
obviously French face, with pointed mustache and imperial, and a French
cap. But clearly even this failed, and the German's next message read,
"WELL DONE, WALES!" The Towers were annoyed, intensely annoyed, because
shortly before that time the strikes of the Welsh miners had been
prominent in the English papers, and as the Towers guessed from this
notice at least equally prominent in the German journals.

"And I only 'opes," said Robinson, "they sticks that notice up in front
of some of the Taffy regiments."

"I don't see that a bit," said 'Enery Irving. "The Taffys out 'ere 'ave
done their bit along with the best, and they're just as mad as us, and
maybe madder, at these ha'penny-grabbing loafers on strike."

"True enough," said Robinson, "but maybe they'll write 'ome and tell
their pals 'ow pleased the Bosche is with them, and 'ave a kind word in
passing to say when any of them goes 'ome casualtied or on leave, 'Well
done, Wales!' Well, I 'ope Wales likes that smack in the eye," and he
spat contemptuously. Presently he had the pleasure of expressing his
mind more freely to a French signaler of artillery who was on duty at
an observing post in this forward fire trench. The Frenchman had a
sufficient smattering of English to ask awkward questions as to why men
were allowed to strike in England in war time, but unfortunately not
enough to follow Robinson's lengthy and agonized explanations that
these men were not English but--a very different thing--Welsh, and,
more than that, unpatriotic swine, who ought to be shot. He was reduced
at last to turning the unpleasant subject aside by asking what the
Frenchman was doing there now the British had taken over. And presently
the matter was shelved by a French observing officer, who was on duty
there, calling his signalers to attention. The German guns had opened a
slow and casual fire about half an hour before on the forward British
trench, and now they quickened their fire and commenced methodically to
bombard the trench. At his captain's order a signaler called up a
battery by telephone. The telephone instrument was in a tall narrow box
with a handle at the side, and the signaler ground the handle
vigorously for a minute and shouted a long string of hello's into the
instrument, rapidly twirled the handle again and shouted, twirled and
shouted.

The Towers watched him in some amusement. "'Ere, chum," said Robinson,
"you 'aven't put your tuppence in the slot," and 'Enery Irving in a
falsetto imitation of a telephone girl's metallic voice drawled: "Put
two pennies in, please, and turn the handle after each--one--two--thank
you! You're through." The signaler revolved the handle again. "You're
mistook, 'Enery," said Robinson, "'e ain't through. Chum, you ought to
get your tuppence back."

"Ask to be put through to the inquiry office," said another. "Make a
complaint and tell 'em to come and take the blanky thing away if it
can't be kept in order. That's what I used to 'ear my governor say
every other day."

From his lookout corner the captain called down in rapid French to his
signaler.

"D 'ye 'ear that," said Robinson. "Garsong he called him. He's a
bloomin' waiter! Well, well, and me thought he was a signaler."

The captain at last was forced to descend from his place, and with the
signaler endeavored to rectify the faulty instrument. They got through
at last, and the captain spoke to his battery.

"'Ear that," said Robinson. "'Mes on-fong,' he says. He's got a lot o'
bloomin' infants too."

"Queer crowd!" said Flannigan. "What with infants for soldiers and a
waiter for a signaler, and a butcher or a baker or candlestick-maker
for a President, as I'm told they have, they're a rum crush
altogether."

The captain ascended to his place again. A German shell, soaring over,
burst with a loud _crump_ behind the trench. The French signaler
laughed and waved derisively towards the shell. He leaned his head and
body far to one side, straightened slowly, bent his head on a curve to
the other side, and brought it up with a jerk, imitating, as he did so,
the sound of the falling and bursting shell,
"_sss-eee-aaa-ahah-aow-Wump_." Another shell fell, and "_aow-Wump_," he
cried again, shuffling his feet and laughing gayly. The Towers laughed
with him, and when the next shell fell there was a general chorus of
imitation.

The captain called again, the signaler ground the handle and spoke into
the telephone. "Fire!" he said, nodding delightedly to the Towers;
"boom-boom-boom-boom." Immediately after they heard the loud, harsh,
crackling reports of the battery to their rear, and the shells rushed
whistling overhead.

The signaler mimicked the whistling sound, and clicked his heels
together. "Ha!" he said, "soixante-quinze--good, eh?" The captain
called to him, and again he revolved the handle and called to the
battery.

"Garsong," said Robinson, "a plate of swa-song-canned beans, si voo
play--and serve 'em hot"

A German shell dropped again, and again the chorused howls and laughter
of the Towers marked its fall. The captain called for high explosive,
and the signaler shouted on the order.

"Exploseef," repeated 'Enery Irving, again airing his French. "That's
high explosive."

"Garsong, twopennorth of exploseef soup," chanted Robinson.

Then the order was sent down for rapid fire, and a moment later the
battery burst out in running quadruple reports, and the shells streamed
whistling overhead. The Towers peered through periscopes and over the
parapet to watch the tossing plumes of smoke and dust that leaped and
twisted in the German lines. "Good old cans!" said Robinson
appreciatively.

When the fire stopped, the captain came to the telephone and spoke to
the battery in praise of their shooting. The Towers listened carefully
to catch a word here and there. "There he goes again," said Robinson,
"with 'is bloomin' infants," and later he asked the signaler the
meaning of "_mes braves_" that was so often in the captain's mouth.

"'Ear that," he said to the other Towers when the signaler explained it
meant "my braves." "Bloomin' braves he's calling his battery now.
Infants was bad enough, but 'braves' is about the limit. I'm open to
admit they're brave enough; that bombing didn't seem to worry them, and
shell-fire pleases them like a call for dinner; and you remember that
time we was in action one side of the La Bassee road and they was in it
on the other? Strewth! When I remember the wiping they got crossing the
open, and the way they stuck it and plugged through that mud, and tore
the barbed wire up by the roots, and sailed over into the German
trench, I'm not going to contradict anybody that calls 'em brave. But
it sounds rum to 'ear 'em call each other it."

Robinson was busy surveying in a periscope the ground between the
trenches. "I dunno if I'm seein' things," he remarked suddenly, "but I
could 've swore a man's 'and waved out o' the grass over there." With
the utmost caution half a dozen men peered out through loopholes and
with periscopes in the direction indicated, and presently a chorus of
exclamations told that the hand had again been seen. Robinson was just
about to wave in reply when 'Enery grabbed his arm.

"You're a nice one to 'act so as to deceive,' you are," he said warmly.
"I s'pose a khaki sleeve is likely to make the 'Uns believe we're
French. Now, you watch me."

He pulled back his tunic sleeve, held his shirtsleeved arm up the
moment the next wave came, and motioned a reply.

"He's in a hole o' some sort," said 'Enery. "Now I wonder who it is. A
Frenchie by his tunic sleeve."

"Yes; there's 'is cap," said Robinson suddenly. "Just up--and gone."

"Make the same motion wi' this cap on a bayonet," said 'Enery; "then
knock off, case the Boshies spot 'im."

The matter was reported, and presently a couple of officers came along,
made a careful examination, and waved the cap. A cautious reply, and a
couple of bullets whistling past their cap came at the same moment.

Later, 'Enery sought the sergeant. "Mind you this, sergeant," he said,
"if there's any volunteerin' for the job o' fetchin' that chap in, he
belongs to me. I found 'im." The sergeant grinned.

"Robinson was here two minutes ago wi' the same tale," he said. "Seems
you're all in a great hurry to get shot."

"Like his bloomin' cheek!" said the indignant 'Enery. "I know why he
wants to go out; he's after those German helmets the interpreter told
us was lyin' out there."

The difficulty was solved presently by the announcement that an officer
was going out and would take two volunteers--B Company to have first
offer. 'Enery and Robinson secured the post, and 'Enery immediately
sought the officer. Reminding him of the order to "act so as to
deceive," he unfolded a plan which was favorably considered.

"Those Boshies thought they was bloomin' clever to twig we was
English," he told the others of B Company; "but you wait till the
lime-light's on me. I'll puzzle 'em."

The two French artillery signalers were sleeping in the forward trench,
and after some explanation readily lent their long-skirted coats. The
officer and Robinson donned one each, and 'Enery carefully arrayed
himself in a torn and discarded pair of old French baggy red breeches
and the damaged French cap, and discarded his own jacket. His gray
shirt might have been of any nationality, so that on the whole he made
quite a passable Frenchman. While they waited for darkness he paraded
the trench, shrugging his shoulders, and gesticulating. "Bon joor, mays
ong-fong," he remarked with a careless hand-wave. "Hey, gar-song!
Donney-moi du pang eh du beurre, si voo play--and donnay-moi swoy-song
cans--rapeed--exploseef! Merci, mes braves, mes bloomin' 'eroes ... mes
noble warriors, merci. Snapper, strike up the 'Conkerin' 'Ero,' if you
please."

Before the time came to go he added to his make-up by marking on his
face with a burnt stick huge black mustachios and an imperial, and
although the officer stared a little when he came along he ended by
laughing, and leaving 'Enery his "make-up" disguise.

An hour after dark the three slipped quietly over the parapet and out
through the barbed wire, dragging a stretcher after them. It was a
fairly quiet night, with only an occasional rifle cracking and no
artillery fire. A bright moon floated behind scudding clouds, and
perhaps helped the adventure by the alternate minutes of light and dark
and the difficulty of focusing eyes to the differences of moonlight and
dark and the blaze of an occasional flare when the moon was obscured.
Behind the parapet the Towers waited with rifles ready, and stared out
through the loopholes; and behind them the French artillery officer,
and his signalers standing by their telephone, also waited with the
loaded guns and ready gunners at the other end of the wire. The
watchers saw the dark blot of men and stretcher slip under the wires,
and slowly, very slowly, creep on through the long grass. Half-way
across, the watchers lost them amidst the other black blots and
shadows, and it was a full half-hour after when a private exclaimed
suddenly: "I see them," he said. "There, close where we saw the hand."

The moon vanished a moment, then sailed clear, throwing a strong
silvery light across the open ground, and showing plainly the German
wire entanglements and the black-and-white patchwork of their
barricade. There were no visible signs of the rescue party, for the
good reason that they had slipped into and lay prone in the wide shell
crater that held the wounded Frenchman. Far spent the man was when they
found him, for he had lain there three nights and two days with a
bullet-smashed thigh and the scrape across his skull that had led the
rest of his night patrol to count him dead and so abandon him.

Now the moon slid again behind the racing clouds, and patches of light
and shadow in turn chased across the open ground.

"Here they come," said the captain of B Company a few minutes later.
"At least I think it's them, altho' I can only see two men and no
stretcher."

"Do you see them?" said an eager voice in French at his ear, and when
he turned and found the gunner captain and explained to him, the
captain made a gesture of despair. "Perhaps it is that they cannot move
him," he said. "Or would they, do you think, return for more help? I
should go myself but that I may be needed to talk with the battery.
Perhaps one of my signalers----"

But the Englishman assured him it was better to wait; they could not be
returning for help; that the three could do all a dozen could.

Again they waited and watched in eager suspense, glimpsing the crawling
figures now and then, losing them again, in doubts and certainty in
swift turns as to the whereabouts and identity of the crawling figures.

"There is one of them," said the captain quickly; "there, by himself,
in those cursed red breeches. They show up in the flarelight like a
blood-spot on a clean collar. Dashed idiot! And I was a fool, too, to
let him go like that."

But it was plain now that 'Enery Irving was dragging his red breeches
well clear of the others, although it was not plain, what the others
had done with the stretcher. There were two of them at the length of a
stretcher apart, and yet no visible stretcher lay between them. It was
the sergeant who solved the mystery.

"I'm blowed!" he said, in admiring wonder; "they've covered the
stretcher over with cut grass. They've got their man too--see his head
this end."

Now that they knew it, all could see the outline of the man's body
covered over with grass, the thick tufts waving upright from his hands
and nodding between his legs.

They were three-quarters of the way across now, but still with a
dangerous slope to cross. It was ever so slight, but, tilted as it was
towards the enemy's line, it was enough to show much more plainly
anything that moved or lay upon its face. They crawled on with a
slowness that was an agony to watch, crawled an inch at a time, lying
dead and still when a light flared, hitching themselves and the
dragging stretcher onwards as the dullness of hazed moonlight fell.

The French captain was consumed with impatience, muttering exhortations
to caution, whispering excited urgings to move, as if his lips were at
the creepers' ears, his fingers twitching and jerking, his body
hitching and holding still, exactly as if he too crawled out there and
dragged at the stretcher.

And then when it seemed that the worst was over, when there was no more
than a score of feet to cover to the barbed wire, when they were
actually crawling over the brow of the gentle rise, discovery came.
There were quick shots from one spot of the German parapet, confused
shouting, the upward soaring of half a dozen blazing flares.

And then before the two dragging the stretcher could move in a last
desperate rush for safety, before they could rise from their prone
position, they heard the rattle of fire increase swiftly to a trembling
staccato roar. But, miraculously, no bullets came near them, no
whistling was about their ears, no ping and smack of impacting lead
hailed about them--except, yes, just the fire of one rifle or two that
sent aimed bullet after bullet hissing over them. They could not
understand it, but without waiting to understand they half rose, thrust
and hauled at the stretcher, dragged it under the wires, heaved it over
to where eager hands tore down the sandbags to gap a passage for them.
A handful of bullets whipped and rapped about them as they tumbled
over, and the stretcher was hoisted in, but nothing worth mention,
nothing certainly of that volume of fire that drammed and rolled out
over there. They did not understand; but the others in the trench
understood, and laughed a little and swore a deal, then shut their
teeth and set themselves to pump bullets in a covering fire upon the
German parapet.

The stretcher party drew little or no fire, simply and solely because
just one second after those first shots and loud shouts had declared
the game up, a figure sprang from the grass fifty yards along the
trench and twice as far out in the open, sprang up and ran out, and
stood in the glare of light, the baggy scarlet breeches and gray shirt
making a flaring mark that no eye, called suddenly to see, could miss,
that no rifle brought sliding through the loophole and searching for a
target could fail to mark. The bullets began to patter about 'Enery
Irving's feet, to whine and whimper and buzz about his ears. And
'Enery--this was where the trench, despite themselves, laughed--'Enery
placed his hand on his heart, swept off his cap in a magnificent arm's
length gesture, and bowed low; then swiftly he rose upright, struck an
attitude that would have graced the hero of the highest class Adelphi
drama, and in a shrill voice that rang clear above the hammering tumult
of the rifles, screamed "Veev la France! A baa la Bosh!" The rifles by
this time were pelting a storm of lead at him, and now that the haste
and flurry of the urgent call had passed and the shooters had steadied
to their task, the storm was perilously close. 'Enery stayed a moment
even then to spread his hands and raise his shoulders ear-high in a
magnificent stage shrug; but a bullet snatched the cap from his head,
and 'Enery ducked hastily, turned, and ran his hardest, with the
bullets snapping at his heels.

Back in the trench a frantic French captain was raving at the
telephone, whirling the handle round, screaming for "Fire, fire, fire!"

Private Flannigan looked over his shoulder at him, "Mong capitaine," he
said, "you ought, you reely ought, to ring up your telephone; turn the
handle round an' say something."

"Drop two pennies in," mocked another as the captain birr-r-red the
handle and yelled again.

Whether he got through, or whether the burst of rifle fire reached the
listening ears at the guns, nobody knew; but just as 'Enery did his
ear-embracing shoulder-shrug the first shells screamed over, burst and
leaped down along the German parapet. After that there was no complaint
about the guns. They scourged the parapet from end to end, up and down,
and up again; they shook it with the blast of high explosive, ripped
and flayed it with, driving blasts of shrapnel, smothered it with a
tempest of fire and lead, blotted it out behind a veil of writhing
smoke.

At the sound of the first shot the gunner captain had leaped back to
the trench. "Is he in? Is he arrived?" he shouted in the ear of the B
Company captain who leaned anxiously over the parapet. The captain drew
back and down. "He's in--bless him--I mean dash his impudent hide!"

The Frenchman turned and called to his signaler, and the next moment
the guns ceased. But the captain waited, watching with narrowed eyes
the German parapet. The storm of his shells had obliterated the rifle
fire, but after a few minutes it opened up again in straggling shots.

The captain snapped back a few orders, and prompt to his word the
shells leaped and struck down again on the parapet. A dozen rounds and
they ceased, and again the captain waited and watched. The rifles were
silent now, and presently the captain relaxed his scowling glare and
his tightened lips. "Vermin!" he said. He used just the tone a man
gives to a ferocious dog he has beaten and cowed to a sullen
submission.

But he caught sight of 'Enery making his way along the trench past his
laughing and chaffing mates, and leaped down and ran to him. "Bravo!"
he beamed, and threw his arms round the astonished soldier, and before
he could dodge, as the disgusted 'Enery said afterwards, "planted two
quick-fire kisses, smack, smack," on his two cheeks.

"_Mon brave_!" he said, stepping back and regarding 'Enery with shining
eyes, "_Mon brave, mon beau Anglais, mon_----"

But 'Enery's own captain arrived here and interrupted the flow of
admiration, cursing the grinning and sheepish private for a this, that,
and the other crazy, play-acting idiot, and winding up abruptly by
shaking hands with him and saying gruffly, "Good work, though. B
Company's proud of you, and so'm I."

"An' I admit I felt easier after that rough-tonguin'," 'Enery told B
Company that night over a mess-tin of tea. "It was sort of
natural-like, an' what a man looks for, and it broke up about as
unpleasant a sit-u-ation as I've seen staged. I could see you all
grinnin', and I don't wonder at it. That slobberin' an' kissin'
business, an' the Mong Brav Conkerin' 'Ero may be all right for a lot
o' bloomin' Frenchies that don't know better--"

He took a long swig of tea.

"Though, mind you," he resumed, "I haven't a bad word to fit to a
Frenchman. They're real good fighting stuff, an' they ain't arf the
light-'earted an' light-'eaded grinnin' giddy goats I used to take 'em
for."

"There wasn't much o' the light 'eart look about the Mong Cappytaine
to-night," said Robinson. "'Is eyes was snappin' like two ends o' a
live wire, and 'e 'andled them guns as business-like as a butcher
cutting chops."

"That's it," said 'Enery, "business-like is the word for 'em. I noticed
them 'airy-faces shootin' to-day. They did it like they was sent there
to kill somebody, and they meant doin' their job thorough an'
competent. Afore I come this trip on the Continong I used to think a
Frenchman was good for nothing but fiddlin' an' dancin' an' makin'
love. But since I've seen 'em settin' to Bosh partners an' dancin'
across the neutral ground an' love-makin' wi' Rosalie,[Footnote:
_Rosalie_--the French nickname for the bayonet.] I've learned better.
'Ere's luck to 'im," and he drained the mess-tin.

And the French, if one might judge from the story _mon capitaine_ had
to tell his major, had also revised some ancient opinions of their
Allies.

"Cold!" he said scornfully; "never again tell me these English are
cold. Children--perhaps. Foolish--but yes, a little. They try to kill a
man between jests; they laugh if a bullet wounds a comrade so that he
grimaces with pain--it is true; I saw it." It _was_ true, and had
reference to a sight scrape of a bullet across the tip of the nose of a
Towers private, and the ribald jests and laughter thereat. "They make
jokes, and say a man 'stopped one,' meaning a shell had been stopped in
its flight by exploding on him--this the interpreter has explained to
me. But cold--no, no, no! If you had seen this man--ah, sublime,
magnificent! With the whistling balls all round him he stands, so
brave, so noble, so fine, stands--so! '_Vive la France_!' he cried
aloud, with a tongue of trumpets; '_Vive la France! A bas les
Boches_!'"

The captain, as he declaimed "with a tongue of trumpets," leaped to his
feet and struck an attitude that was really quite a good imitation of
'Enery's own mock-tragedian one. But the officers listening breathed
awe and admiration; they did not, as the Towers did, laugh, because
here, unlike the Towers, they saw nothing to laugh at.

The captain dropped to his chair amid a murmur of applause. "Sublime!"
he said. "That posture, that cry! Indeed, it was worthy of a Frenchman.
But certainly we must recommend him for a Cross of France, eh, my
major?"

'Enery Irving got the Cross of the Legion of Honor. But I doubt if it
ever gave him such pure and legitimate joy as did a notice stuck up in
the German trench next day. Certainly it insulted the English by
stating that their workers stayed at home and went on strike while
Frenchmen fought and died. _But_ it was headed "Frenchman!" _and it was
written in French._



THE FEAR OF FEAR


_"At ---- we recaptured the portion of front line trench lost by us
some days ago."_--EXTRACT FROM DISPATCH.

"In a charge," said the Sergeant, "the 'Hotwater Guards' don't think
about going back till there's none of them left to go back; and you can
always remember this: if you go forward you _may_ die, if you go back
you _will_ die."

The memory of that phrase came back to Private Everton, tramping down
the dark road to the firing-line. Just because he had no knowledge of
how he himself would behave in this his baptism of fire, just because
he was in deadly fear that he would feel fear, or, still worse, show
it, he strove to fix that phrase firmly in front of his mind. "If I can
remember that," he thought, "it will stop me going back, anyway," and
he repeated: "If you go back you _will_ die, if you go back you _will_
die," over and over.

It is true that, for all his repetition, when a field battery, hidden
close by the side of the road on which they marched, roared in a sudden
and ear-splitting salvo of six guns, for the instant he thought he was
under fire and that a huge shell had burst somewhere desperately close
to them. He had jumped, his comrades assured him afterwards, a clear
foot and a half off the ground, and he himself remembered that his
first involuntary glance and thought flashed to the deep ditch that ran
alongside the road.

When he came to the trenches, at last, and filed down the narrow
communication-trench and into his Company's appointed position in the
deep ditch with a narrow platform along its front that was the forward
fire-trench, he remembered with unpleasant clearness that instinctive
start and thought of taking cover. By that time he had actually been
under fire, had heard the shells rush over him and the shattering noise
of their burst; had heard the bullets piping and humming and hissing
over the communication- and firing-trenches. He took a little comfort
from the fact that he had not felt any great fear then, but he had to
temper that by the admission that there was little to be afraid of
there in the shelter of the deep trench. It was what he would do and
feel when he climbed out of cover on to the exposed and bullet-swept
flat before the trench that he was in doubt about; for the Hotwaters
had been told that at nine o'clock there was to be a brief but intense
bombardment on a section of trench in front of them which had been
captured from us the day before, and which, after several
counter-attacks had failed, was to be taken that morning by this
battalion of Hotwaters.

At half-past eight, nobody entering their trench would have dreamed
that the Hotwaters were going into a serious action in half an hour.
The men were lounging about, squatting on the firing-step, chaffing and
talking--laughing even--quite easily and naturally; some were smoking,
and others had produced biscuits and bully beef from their haversacks
and were calmly eating their breakfast.

Everton felt a glow of pride as he looked at them. These men were his
friends, his fellows, his comrades: they were of the Hotwater
Guards--his regiment, and his battalion. He had heard often enough that
the Guards Brigades were the finest brigades in the Army, that this
particular brigade was the best of all the Guards, that his battalion
was the best of the Brigade. Hitherto he had rather deprecated these
remarks as savoring of pride and self-conceit, but now he began to
believe that they must be true; and so believing, if he had but known
it, he had taken another long step on the way to becoming the perfect
soldier, who firmly believes his regiment the finest in the world and
is ready to die in proof of the belief.

"Dusty Miller," the next file on his left, who was eating bread and
cheese, spoke to him.

"Why don't you eat some grab, Toffee?" he mumbled cheerfully, with his
mouth full. "In a game like this you never know when you'll get the
next chance of a bite."

"Don't feel particularly hungry," answered Toffee with an attempt to
appear as off-handed and casual and at ease as his questioner. "So I
think I'd better save my ration until I'm hungry."

Dusty Miller sliced off a wedge of bread with the knife edge against
his thumb, popped it in his mouth, and followed it with a corner of
cheese.

"A-ah!" he said profoundly, and still munching; "there's no sense in
saving rations when you're going into action. I'd a chum once that
always did that; said he got more satisfaction out of a meal when the
job was over and he was real hungry, and had a chance to eat in
comfort--more or less comfort. And one day we was for it he saved a tin
o' sardines and a big chunk of cake and a bottle of pickled onions that
had just come to him from home the day before; said he was looking
forward to a good feed that night after the show was over. And--and he
was killed that day!"

Dusty Miller halted there with the inborn artistry that left his climax
to speak for itself.

"Hard luck!" said Toffee sympathetically. "So his feed was wasted!"

"Not to say wasted exactly," said Dusty, resuming bread and cheese.
"Because I remembers to this day how good them onions was. Still it was
wasted, far as he was concerned--and he was particular fond o' pickled
onions."

But even the prospect of wasting his rations did nothing to induce
Toffee to eat a meal. The man on Toffee's right was crouched back on
the firing-step apparently asleep or near it. Dusty Miller had turned
and opened a low-toned conversation with the next man, the frequent
repetition of "I says" and "she says" affording some clew to the thread
of his story and inclining Toffee to believe it not meant for him to
hear. He felt he must speak to some one, and it was with relief that he
saw Halliday, the man on his other side, rouse himself and look up.
Something about Toffee's face caught his attention.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, leaning forward and speaking quietly.
"This is your first charge, isn't it!"

"Yes," said Toffee, "I'm all right. I--I think I'm all right."

The other moved slightly on the firing-step, leaving a little room, and
Toffee took this as an invitation to sit down. Halliday continued to
speak in low tones that were not likely to pass beyond his listener's
ear.

"Don't you get scared," he said. "You've nothing much to be scared
about."

He threw a little emphasis, and Toffee fancied a little envy, into the
"you."

"I'm not scared exactly," said Toffee. "I'm sort of wondering what it
will be like."

"I know," said Halliday, "I know; and who should, if I didn't? But I
can tell you this--you don't need to be afraid of shells, you don't
need to be afraid of bullets, and least of all is there any need to be
afraid of the cold iron when the Hotwaters get into the trench. You
don't need to be afraid of being wounded, because that only means home
and a hospital and a warm dry bed; you don't need to be afraid of
dying, because you've got to die some day, anyhow. There's only one
thing in this game to be afraid of, and there isn't many finds that in
their first engagement. It's the ones like me that get it."

Toffee glanced at him curiously and in some amazement. Now that he
looked closely, he could see that, despite his easy loungeful attitude
and steady voice, and apparently indifferent look, there was something
odd and unexplainable about Halliday: some faintest twitching of his
lips, a shade of pallor on his cheek, a hunted look deep at the back of
his eyes. Everton tried to speak lightly.

"And what is it, then, that the likes o' you get?"

Halliday's voice sank to little more than a whisper. "It's the fear o'
fear," he said steadily. "Maybe, you think you know what that is, that
you feel it yourself. You know what I mean, I suppose?"

Toffee nodded. "I think so," he said. "What I fear myself is that I'll
be afraid and show that I'm afraid, that I'll do something rotten when
we get out up there."

He jerked his head up and back towards the open where the rifles
sputtered and the bullets whistled querulously.

"There's plenty fear that," admitted Halliday, "before their first
action; but mostly it passes the second they leave cover and can't
protect themselves and have to trust to whatever there is outside,
themselves to bring them through. You don't know the beginning of how
bad the fear o' fear can be till you have seen dozens of your mates
killed, till you've had death no more than touch you scores of times,
like I have."

"But you don't mean to tell me," said Toffee incredulously, "that you
are afraid of yourself, that you can't trust yourself now? Why, I've
heard said often that you're one of the coolest under fire, and that
you don't know what fear is!"

"It's a good reputation to have if you can keep it," said Halliday.
"But it makes it worse if you can't."

"I wish," said Toffee enviously, "I was as sure of keeping it as you
are to-day."

Halliday pulled his hand from his pocket and held it beside him where