muttered Bettson. The incessant crashes prevented the words from being heard. âHow are we to know? Heâs dead, thatâs all. Youâd better get a stretcher.â
But Corporal Sugger stood motionless, looking at the body.
â âOw the âell was I to know âe wasnât shamming? Easy enough. âOw was I to know?â
This was what heâd been waiting for. What the devil did the rain matter? Bill stood outside his dug-out, examining his revolver and adjusting the string of his smoke helmet. The worse the weather, the better for the raid: the Hun wouldnât expect them on a night like this. It was about time it came off, about time somebody did something. Hanging about in Railway Wood and being whizz-banged in Cambridge Road wouldnât win the war. If other fellows, like those fellows in the 1st Battalion, were content to sit and smoke, well he wasnât. Devil of a job heâd had, though, to get the Skipper to agree, and then thereâd been all the excitement with the Colonel and the Brigadier, and all the reams of orders and instructions. There was too much talk altogether in this war: why not get on with it, and cut out all the quack? Just a few good chaps like Robbie and Freddy Mann and Jack Malcolm: all they wanted to do was to leave it to them, and theyâd soon get it through. Heâd know all about it, the pretty Hun, before a few more hours were over. Heâd know. Bill got up on the firestep, and peered through the line of stakes into the darkness. There they were, tucked away. Let him get at them, that was all. Heâd lived for this long enoughâdreamed of it, ever since heâd first joined up. Gad, life wasnât half worth living with a job like this in hand. Here were Freddy Mann and Robbie, and the Skipper was round there waiting. Now theyâd show âem. Bill laughed aloud as he gave a final hitch to his equipment, and swung through the driving rain along the trench.
CHAPTER X
âAny news of the raid?â Private Beard looked up as Dick Bartlett
entered, shook the water from his hat and wrung out the bottom of his tunic.
âNone Iâve heard of. Where the âellâs my rations? âEre, Bett, you swine, youâve bagged my bully beef.â
âTell yer I ainâtâyour tinâs over there. âAve this, too, if yer wants it. Ainât they got nothing but this âere bloody bully beef?â
âAnd canât you do nothing but grouse about yer grub? Damned sight more than yer ever got when yer was down Limehouse, Iâll be bound. Chuck over the opener, Beard, old son.â
âBetter if it was cooked. But âow the âell can yer get a fire going, night like this.â
âJust as well. Remember what âappened last week, time we made a bit oâ smoke.â
âMean when Bob was knocked out? Bit oâ bad luck, thatâs all that was. Canât even do a bit oâ cookinâ nowâitâs come to that. Whereâs granddad?â
âOut with the officer, same as usual.â
âMore fool âimââe wasnât asked to go. Ought to know better, old soldier like âimââe ought to know.â
âAlways âanginâ round âim, yer know âe is. Watches âim like a two-year-old. Gawd knows why.â
âWants it, pâraps.â Dick Bartlett dug vigorously into the tin between his knees. âBit of a kid, our officer. But heâs growinâ up. âOwâs the kids, Beard?â
Beard warmed to the one subject that never failed to awaken interest.
âAinât so bad. âAd a letter today. Bobâs got a touch oâ croup, and Lil sheâs teethinâ, but the missus saysââere, whereâs the letter? Iâll read yer what the missus says. Where the âellâs that letter? âEre, get up, Bett, youâre sittinâ on my
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