Next morning as I was looking through a periscope at the enemy's
trenches, and wondering what was happening behind their sandbag line,
a man from the sanitary squad came along sprinkling the trench with
creosote and chloride of lime.
"Seein' anything?" he asked.
"Not much," I answered, "the grass is so high in front that I can see
nothing but the tips of the enemy's parapets. There's some work for you
here," I said.
"Where?"
"Under your feet," I told him. "The floor is soft as putty and smells
vilely. Perhaps there is a dead man there. Last night I slept by the
spot and it turned me sick."
"Have you an entrenchin' tool?"
I handed him the implement, he dug into the ground and presently
unearthed a particle of clothing, five minutes later a boot came to
view, then a second; fifteen minutes assiduous labour revealed an
evil-smelling bundle of clothing and decayed flesh. I still remained an
onlooker, but changed my position on the banquette.
"He must have been dead a long time," said the sanitary man, as he
flung handfuls of lime on the body, "see his face."
He turned the thing on its back, its face up to the sky. The features
were wonderfully well-preserved; the man might have fallen the day
before. The nose pinched and thin, turned up a little at the point, the
lips were drawn tight round the gums, the teeth showed dog-like and
vicious; the eyes were open and raised towards the forehead, and the
whole face was splashed with clotted blood. A wound could be seen on
the left temple, the fatal bullet had gone through there.
"He was killed in the winter," said the sanitary man, pointing at
the gloves on the dead soldier's hand. "These trenches were the
'Allemands'' then, and the boys charged 'em. I suppose this feller
copped a packet and dropped into the mud and was tramped down."
"Who is he?" I asked.