By midnight on the same Sunday the Battalion, now far under its
original strength, had re-entered the scene of yesterday's long
struggle, filing thither under the stars, by a deserted and ghostly
German _boyau_ nearly ten feet deep. Fosse Alley erred in the opposite
direction. It was not much more than four feet in depth; the
chalky parapet could by no stretch of imagination be described as
bullet-proof; dug-outs and communication-trenches were non-existent.
On our left the trench-line was continued by the troops of another
Division: on our right lay another battalion of our own brigade.
"If the line has been made really continuous this time," observed the
Colonel, "we should be as safe as houses. Wonderful fellows, these
sappers! They have wired almost our whole front already. I wish they
had had time to do it on our left as well."
Within the next few hours all defensive preparations possible in the
time had been completed; and our attendant angels, most effectively
disguised as Royal Engineers, had flitted away, leaving us to wait for
Monday morning--and Brother Bosche.
With the dawn, our eyes, which had known no sleep since Friday night,
peered rheumily out over the whitening landscape.
To our front the ground stretched smooth and level for two hundred
yards, then fell gently away, leaving a clearly denned skyline. Beyond
the skyline rose houses, of which we could descry only the roofs and
upper windows.
"That must be either Haisnes or Douvrin," said Major Kemp. "We are
much farther to the left than we were yesterday. By the way, _was_ it
yesterday?"
"The day before yesterday, sir," the ever-ready Waddell informed him.
"Never mind; to-day's the day, anyhow. And it's going to be a busy
day, too. The fact is, we are in a tight place, and all through doing
too well. We have again penetrated so much farther forward than any
one else in our neighbourhood that we _may_ have to fall back a bit.
But I hope not. We have a big stake, Waddell. If we can hold on to
this position until the others make good upon our right and left, we
shall have reclaimed a clear two miles of the soil of France, my son."
The Major swept the horizon with his glasses. "Let me see: that is
probably Hulluch away on our right front: the Loos towers must be in
line with us on our extreme right, but we can't see them for those
hillocks. There is our old friend Fosse Eight towering over us on our
left rear. I don't know anything about the ground on our absolute
left, but so long as that flathead regiment hold on to their trench,
we can't go far wrong. Waddell, I don't like those cottages on our
left front. They block the view, and also spell machine-guns. I see
one or two very suggestive loopholes in those red-tiled roofs. Go and
draw Ayling's attention to them. A little preliminary _strafing_ will
do them no harm."
Five minutes later one of Ayling's machine-guns spoke out, and
a cascade of tiles came sliding down the roofs of the offending
cottages.
"That will tickle them up, if they have any guns set up on those
rafters," observed the Major, with ghoulish satisfaction. "I wonder
if Brer Bosche is going to attack. I hope he does. There is only one
thing I am afraid of, and that is that there may be some odd saps
running out towards us, especially on our flanks. If so, we shall have
some close work with bombs--a most ungentlemanly method of warfare.
Let us pray for a straightforward frontal attack."
But Brer Bosche had other cards to play first. Suddenly, out of
nowhere, the air was filled with "whizz-bang" shells, moving in a
lightning procession which lasted nearly half an hour. Most of these
plastered the already scarred countenance of Fosse Eight: others
fell shorter and demolished our parapet. When the tempest ceased, as
suddenly as it began, the number of casualties in the crowded trench
was considerable. But there was little time to attend to the wounded.
Already the word was running down, the line--
"Look out to your front!"
Sure enough, over the skyline, two hundred yards away, grey figures
were appearing--not in battalions, but tentatively, in twos and
threes. Next moment a storm of rapid rifle fire broke from the trench.
The grey figures turned and ran. Some disappeared over the horizon,
others dropped flat, others simply curled up and withered. In three
minutes solitude reigned again, and the firing ceased.
"Well, that's that!" observed Captain Wagstaffe to Bobby Little, upon
the right of the Battalion line. "The Bosche has 'bethought himself
and went,' as the poet says. Now he knows we are here, and have
brought our arquebuses with us. He will try something more ikey next
time. Talking of time, what about breakfast? When was our last meal,
Bobby?"
"Haven't the vaguest notion," said Bobby sleepily.
"Well, it's about breakfast-time now. Have a bit of chocolate? It is
all I have."
It was eight o'clock, and perfect silence reigned. All down the line
men, infinitely grubby, were producing still grubbier fragments of
bully-beef and biscuits from their persons. For an hour, squatting
upon the sodden floor of the trench--it was raining yet again--the
unappetising, intermittent meal proceeded.