Private Albert Snape, A.S.C. (M.T.), stepped off the footboard of X.33, a
mediæval Vanguard, and splashed his way round to the driver. "I'm fair sick
o' this 'ere Flanders, I am," he complained, expectorating dolorously into
the sea of mud; "'spose it 'ull be up to the blinkin' axles before
February?" He stirred the mixture with a cautious foot.
"Not 'arf, ole sport," replied the driver, carefully unsticking a cigarette
from his underlip. "But yer ought to 'ave bin out larst winter, then yer
did 'ave to sit above yerself to keep yer tootsies dry."
"Wot--wuss than this?" exclaimed the disconsolate one.
"Wuss!" was the withering retort. "Wy, when I tells yer that some o' them
Naval 'Umming-birds, t'other side o' Popinjay, fitted out an ole Blue
'Ammersmith with a pair o' propellers ... Wuss!" He exhaled scornfully and
gave a turn to the lubricator.
"Any chance o' getting down Vermelly way? They say it ain't 'arf bad
there." Albert brightened up at the thought.
"'Tain't likely," was the sharp and unsympathetic reply. "'Oo do yer
think's goin' ter do this little job if they takes our lot away? Wy, this
'ere road is just like 'Igh 'Olborn to me; I knows all the 'umps and
'ollows blindfold."
Albert returned to the stern sheets and considered the most feasible method
of desertion.
Half-an-hour later, when the daylight had gone, X.33, generously
over-flowing with a detachment of the 20th Mudlarkers, was, in company with
many other vehicles, making her inharmonious way along the "Wipers" road.
Judging from the plunginess of her progress and the fluent language of the
man of oil, it was evident that some of the "'umps and 'ollows" had passed
from the driver's memory. Not that such a slight matter could damp the
spirits of the passengers. Rather it served to entertain them.
"We '_ave_ gone an' fallen out of the dress-circle this time," a voice
exclaimed after an extra steep dive into a badly-filled shell crater.
Albert, wet and unsociable, hung gloomily on to the back rail.
"Carn't see wot they got to be so blinkin' 'appy abart," he muttered
savagely; "I don't believe it's 'arf bad in them trenches." He ruminated
bitterly on the thought that his job was probably the worst one on the
whole front, and made a resolve to put the matter right.
When the final stopping-place had been reached and the 20th Mudlarkers,
after the usual indescribable mêlée, had been put upon the path that would
ultimately lead them (if they were fortunate enough to avoid all guides,
philosophers and friends) to their trench, the man of oil was profanely
grieved to discover that Albert Snape had abandoned X33 for the unknown.
As a matter of fact Albert had slipped away and followed the Mudlarkers,
with a hazy idea that a rifle would fortuitously present itself. That an
extra unit could possibly be noticed never occurred to him. He had a vague
intention of joining a cavalry regiment. Very soon he lost the Mudlarkers,
and then, by an easy sequence of events, himself.
"Wha goes there?" whispered a hoarse voice almost in his ear. It gave him
quite an unpleasant start, but, suppressing his first inspiration, which
was to say the Life Guards, he answered, "I'm a Mudlarker!"
"This iss the Seaforths in supporrt," remarked the sentry; "ye'll be in the
firrst line, na doot. Ye'll hae to go back, an' it's the firrst turnin' tae
the left, an' keep as strecht as ye can." The Highlander stepped back into
the deeper shadows and the self-recruited Mudlarker continued his career.
He traversed what seemed to him an interminable number of trenches without
encountering anyone. There was a reason for this lack of companionship, but
it did not at first appeal to his imagination. Suddenly he was startled by
the vicious "phut, phut, phut" of unpleasantly close shooting, and bullets
began to splash and grease along the bottom of the trench, accompanied by
the stutter of a machine gun.
Miraculously untouched, he slid over the parados and lay, sweating with
fright, in the watery furrow of a turnip field.
The trench was one that was seldom used, being thoroughly exposed to
enfilading fire. At stated periods through the night a machine gun was
turned on, a proceeding which, beyond gratifying the Huns, had no sort of
effect. Albert, in blissful ignorance of all such customs, floundered about
amongst the turnips until he came across a Jack Johnson crater. From this
he emerged even wetter than before. A little later he became mixed up with
some barbed wire. The more be tried to get away the more inextricably he
became involved with it. A star shell burst overhead, and a German sniper,
seizing the chance of a lifetime, put in four rounds rapid fire.
Albert lost the lobe of an ear and had his breeches shot through, but he
managed to escape from the wire and find another furrow. Mere dampness no
longer inconvenienced him, there were so many other things to think about.
He crawled stealthily on his hands and knees and found the barbed wire
again. At length he heard the welcome sound of voices. He crawled faster
until he became aware that the voices were not speaking English, This
discovery turned him to stone. For an hour--perhaps two hours--he remained
as still as a hare in its form.
Suddenly, blurred and crouching figures appeared out of the night. They
moved quickly and silently. One of them nearly trod upon his hand, but he
was too dazed to think of committing himself to either speech or action.
"Give it 'em!" cried a voice a few seconds later, and the roar of the
exploding bombs signified that it had been given.
Instantly pandemonium broke loose. Machine gun and rapid rifle fire burst
forth from the German front trenches, and streams of bullets swept over the
intervening ground like a gigantic hail-storm; then some field batteries
began to burst H.E. shrapnel above the disturbed area, while star shells
and magnesium flares threw an uneven light over the whole scene.
A breathless body cast itself down beside the now completely mesmerised
Albert: "We ain't 'arf upset the blinkin' beehive. Lumme! it's--"
The prone figure suddenly became silent, gave a convulsive kick or two and
rolled over towards the man who still lived.
It was sufficient. Something seemed to draw very tense in Albert's brain
and his body reeled into action.
Blindly and without coherent thought he ran shouting across the field,
stumbling and falling over the slippery and uneven surface, but always
picking himself up and flinging his body onward into the unknown.
A subaltern, who was examining a luminous watch, received him at the charge
as he fell into an English first-line trench. They struggled wildly
together in the mud to the accompaniment of startling language on the part
of the subaltern.
Then Albert, having reached his limit of endurance, had the supreme tact to
faint.
A little later, in a well-found dug-out, the patient was refreshing himself
with copious draughts of brandy.
"Who are you, and what the devil are you doing here?" asked the still
indignant officer.
Albert did not hesitate longer than it takes to swallow.
"Lorst me way, I 'ave, Sir. I'm with X 33, attached to Mechanical
Transport, an' if I ain't back pretty quick my mate 'ull fair 'ave a
bloomin' fit."
* * * * *
As was predicted by the sagacious man of oil, the mud upon the ---- road is
slowly climbing towards the axles, but in spite of this and sundry other
drawbacks it would be hard to find a more contented spirit than that of
Private Albert Snape, A.S.C. (M.T.).
* * * * *