This should give you an idea of the English and Turkish lines at a point
where they are about eighty yards apart. Without going into details you
will see the English trench is of the superior pattern, as it has
traverses. I had to work in that technical term to show I know all about
it; I know another, "the berm," but I am not too sure about what that
is, and also I don't suppose I could draw a "berm" if I saw one. Anyway,
I know it's quite a good term connected with trenches, as I heard a
G.O.C. fairly strafe a subaltern, the other day, because he hadn't got a
"berm." Well, to refer to the map, you will observe that there is an old
ditch running between the two lines of trenches, and both sides have
advanced a certain distance along this ditch and have built barricades
about ten yards apart. Every day it is part of my job to take a
constitutional along our trenches, and after discussing the European
situation and the latest Budget with the various battalion commanders to
ask them whether there is any particularly obnoxious part of the
opposition line they would like me to salute with my battery. Usually
they say, "No, there's nothing in particular, but let's have a shoot all
the same; for example, there's a dog that barks abominably every night
opposite L 57. Couldn't you abolish him?" Incidentally we no longer give
our trenches names, such as Piccadilly, Rotten Row, but mere letters and
numbers; the reason being that one of the staff was picked up in a
fainting condition, having strolled down Park Lane and then found
himself, to his horror, in Peckham High Street. The shock--his own home
being in Baling Broadway--had proved too much for his constitution.
However, to refer back to the map once more, our barricade across the
ditch is a most convenient spot for observing artillery fire and as such
is frequently used by me. Unfortunately my view was always hasty and
badly interrupted by the attentions of a Turkish sniper behind their
barricade. This man's name was Ibrahim, and he was a Constantinople
cab-driver, married, with two children, both boys. You may be surprised
that we know so much about the enemy, but we live in such close
proximity that opposite the Lancashire Fusiliers a Turk named Mahomet,
who lives at No. 3, Golden Horn Terrace, told the reporter of _The
Worpington Headlight_ that for three years he had been suffering from
pains in the back--but that's another story. Incidentally Mahomet at
present inhabits a sniper's post surrounded by a perfect thicket of
barbed-wire, and I had a bright scheme for its removal. I got hold of a
trench catapult, an ingenious contrivance of elastic that hurls a bomb
some hundreds of yards, and placed in it a harpoon attached to a long
coil of rope. The idea was that on release of the catapult the harpoon
would be hurled in the air, the rope would neatly pay out, and then, as
soon as the harpoon had grappled Mahomet, all we would have to do would
be to haul on the rope and over would come the whole bag of tricks.
Unfortunately something went wrong, and the rope, instead of neatly
uncoiling, flailed round the trench like a young anaconda, and, catching
a harmless spectator by the leg, hurled him twenty feet in the air.
Immediately the opposition lines resounded like a rifle-booth at a
country fair. However our spectator descended unpunctured, and the only
damage done was to our vanity, when Mahomet threw over a message
attached to a stone to ask whether we would repeat the performance as he
and a pal had a bet on as to who was the best shot and wanted a human
aeroplane to judge.
But we have got a long way from Ibrahim. Ibrahim possessed the headpiece
I am sending you. I could not think of a method for obtaining it, as his
vigilance was deadly. However a bright thought struck me, and I
assiduously saved up my rum ration for a month. Then one bitter cold
night I tossed over the accumulation in a bottle wrapped up in an old
sock. Presently there resounded in the still air a pleasant bubbling
sound indicative of liquid being poured out of a glass receptacle, then
a deep sigh, followed by a profound silence. Inch by inch I crawled over
our barricade and slowly wormed my way along the ditch. At last I
reached the Turkish barricade and cautiously slid my hand over the top
until my fingers encountered Ibrahim's toque. Then I gave a gentle tug.
Horror! he had the flap down under his chin. Unmanned for a moment I
recovered, and I slowly slid my fingers down his hirsute neck and with a
gentle titillation slid the flap clear. Ibrahim merely stirred in his
sleep and resumed his slumbers. Triumphantly hugging the trophy to my
bosom I crawled back to our barricade.
The saddest part of the tale is yet to come. I had promised to procure
you a trophy unstained by association with human slaughter, but when the
day dawned there lay poor Ibrahim stiff and stark behind his barricade,
killed by a cold in his head.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PANTOMIME ANNOUNCEMENTS.]
* * * * *
"Message Boy Wanted for Butchery."
_Brechin Advertiser._
A lot of people are after that boy.
* * * * *
"Taxi driver who laid down Fare at Royal Hotel at 2.45 p.m. on
Christmas Day, would oblige by returning Gent's Umbrella to
Hotel."
_Aberdeen Journal._
We gather that it had been a wet morning.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Cyril_ (_eating his bread-and-jam--with not too much
jam_). "This is prepostrous--this war economy."]
* * * * *