The Staff of _The Muddleton Weekly Gazette_, having disguised himself as
an ordinary citizen, entered the local hospital in quest of copy. His
keen eye immediately singled out a man of solemn, careworn aspect, and
to him he directed his footsteps. Two clear grey eyes looked into his,
and his greeting was answered politely, though without enthusiasm. Then,
exerting all the skill and adroitness which had marked him out for forty
years as a coming man in the journalistic world, the visitor put the
soldier gradually at his ease and tactfully induced him to recount his
experiences.
"I could tell you lots of things what would astonish you, Sir," began
the convalescent. "Six months in the trenches gives you plenty of time
to pick up tales--and invent them, too; but I don't hold with that. A
little exaggeration helps things along, as old Wolff says, but when he
goes beyond I'm not with him. No lies--not for Truthful James. That's
me, Sir. They call me that in B Company; James being the name what my
godfathers and godmothers give me, and Truthful being as you might say
an identification mark."
The other nodded and waited in silence.
"Nothing much happened to me for the first three months, but then we was
moved further South and a new Sub. joined us. Name of Williamson. Do you
know him, Sir? Second-Lieutenant J. J. C. de V. Williamson was his full
war paint. Ah, it's a pity you don't. Quite a kid he was, but he could
tell you off as free and flowing as a blooming General, and never repeat
himself for ten minutes. He stirred things up considerable--specially
the enemy. Sniping was his game; two hours regular every morning, with a
Sergeant to spot for him and a Corporal to bring him drinks at intervals
of ten minutes to keep him cool. He kept count of the Huns he had outed
by notches on the post of his dug-out. Every time he rang the bell he'd
cut up a notch, and before he'd been with us a month you could have used
that post as a four-foot saw.
"Naturally the Huns were riled. You see, we was a salient and they was a
salient, and there wasn't more than a hundred yards between us. We could
hear them eating quite plainly, when they had anything to eat, and when
they hadn't they smoked cigars which smelt worse than all the gas they
ever squirted. One day the Sub. strolls up for his morning practice and
sees a huge sign above the enemy trench: 'Don't shoot. We are Saxons.'
They had relieved the Prussians and they was moving about above their
trenches as free as a Band of Hope Saturday excursion.
"'Until anyone proves the contrary,' says our Sub., 'I maintain that
Saxons is Germans.' Moreover, says he, 'war is war,' and he had to cut
up three more notches on his post afore he could make them understand
that his attitude was hostile. When they did grasp it they began to
strafe us, and they kep' it up hard all day. When night come our Sub.
decided he'd had enough. 'Boys,' he says to us, 'one hour before the
crimson sun shoots forth his flaming rays from out of the glowing East
them Germans is going to be shifted from that trench. We ain't a-going
to make a frontal attack,' he says, 'because some of us might have the
misfortune to tear our tunics on the enemy entanglements, and housewives
is scarce. We are going to crawl along that hollow on the flank and
enfilade the blighters.'
"So we puts a final polish on our bainets and waits. Bimeby we starts
out, Sergeant leading the way. We wriggled through the mud like Wapping
eels at low tide for the best part of an hour, and at last we got to
their trench and halted to listen. There wasn't a sound to be heard;
nobody snoring, nobody babbling of beer in his sleep; only absolute
silence. Sergeant was lying next to me and I distinctly heard his heart
miss several beats. Then all at once we leaps into the air, gives a yell
fit to make any German wish he'd never been born, and falls into their
trench, doing bainet drill like it would have done your heart good to
see. But we stops it as quick as we begun, because there wasn't a single
man in that trench. Not one, Sir.
"After a awkward pause, 'The birds have flown,' says our Sub., sorrowful
like, as if he'd asked some friends to dinner and the cat had eat the
meat.
"'I think, Sir,' says Sergeant, 'that they've abandoned this trench as
being untenable, and probably left a few mines behind for us.' I didn't
like that. I thought our trench was a much nicer trench in every way,
and I felt it was time to think of going back, when suddenly we hears a
norrible yell come up from our trench and sounds of blokes jumping
about. Yes, Sir, the Germans had made an attack on our trench at the
same time, only they had gone round by the other flank, where there was
some trees to help them.
"So there they was in our trench, and we in theirs, and dawn just
beginning to break. There was only one thing to do. We went back, hoping
they would wait for us; but they hopped it quick, same way as they come,
and so we finished up just as we was when we started, except for mud.
Our Sub. was wild with rage, and he hustled about all the morning
looking for defaulters, his face as black as the Kayser's soul; and he
even went so far as to curse a Machine Gun Section, which shows you
better than words what he felt like. D Company, when they come to
relieve us, wouldn't believe a word of it, not till I told them. They
had to then, because they knew what my name was. James, Sir, and
Truthful as a sort of appendix."
"And there were others, of course, to corroborate your story?"
"To what, Sir?"
"To swear to the truth of it?"
"Oh yes. They swore to it all right. Again and again. But that was
nothing to what happened in the same trench when we come back from
billets. It was like this here. Our Sub.... What's that you say, Bill?"
He broke off. "Time for visitors to leave?"
The Orderly explained that it was so, and, after a cordial leave-taking
on the part of the visitor, saw him out and returned.
"Do you know who that was, Jim?" he asked.
"Soon as he started pumping me," replied James, "I offered myself a
hundred quid to a bob on his being a noospaper man, but there was no
taker at the price, bobs being scarce and me having a dead cert. Suppose
I shall be in the local paper on Saturday, Bill?"
"Yes. Thrilling Tales from the Trenches, number forty-three."
"Pity he had to go so soon," sighed James. "I was only just beginning to
get into my stride."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Cheerful One_ (_to newcomer, on being asked what the
trenches are like_). "If yer stands up yer get sniped; if yer keeps down
yer gets drowned; if yer moves about yer get shelled; and if yer stands
still yer gets court-martialled for frost-bite."]
* * * * *