But for the most part the moonlight made everything straightforward, and there was only the spitting sound of picks, the heavy, smothered noise of men lifting sand-bags, or the “slap, slap” of others patting them into a wall with the back of a shovel, that broke the stillness. On the left “A” Company were working full steam ahead, heightening the parapet and building a big traverse at the entrance to the Matterhorn sap. “Robertson’s traverse” we always called it afterwards. He got his men working in a long chain, passing filled sand-bags along from a big miners’ sand-bag dump, the accumulation of months of patient R.E. tunnelling. These huge dumps rose up in gigantic piles where-ever there was a shaft-head; and they were a windfall to us if they were anywhere near where we were working. On this occasion quite a thousand must have been passed along and built into that traverse, and the parapet there, by the Matterhorn. It was fascinating work, passing these dry, small sacks as big as medium-sized babies, only as knobby and angular under their outer cover as a baby is soft and rounded. Meanwhile the builders laid them, like bricks, alternate “headers” and “stretchers.”

And so the work went on under the moon.

“Davies,” I cried, in that low questioning tone that might well be called “trench voice.” It is not a whisper; yet it is not a full, confident sound. If a man speaks loudly in the front trench, you tell him to remember the Boche is a hundred yards away; if he whispers in a hoarse voice that sounds a little nervy, you tell him that the Boche’s ears are not a hundred yards long. The result is a restrained and serious-toned medium.

“Sirr,” answered a voice close beside me, in a pitch rather louder than the usual trench-voice. Davies always spoke clear and loud. He was my orderly.

“Oh! there you are.” Like a dog he had got tired of standing, and while I stood watching the fascinating progress of the erection of a box dug-out under Sergeant Hayman’s direction, he was sitting on the fire-step immediately behind me. Had he been a collie, his tongue would have been out, and he would have yawned occasionally; or his nose might even have been between his paws. Now he jumped up, giving a hitch to his rifle that was slung over his left shoulder.

“I’m going round the sentries,” I said.

Davies said nothing, but followed about two paces behind, stopping when I stopped, and gazing at me silently when I got up on the fire-step to look over.

The low-ground in the quarry was very wet, and the trench there two feet deep in water, so it was temporarily abandoned, and the little trench out of 76 Street by No. 1 Sniping Post was my way to No. 5 Platoon. It was a very narrow bit of trench, and on a dark night one kept knocking one’s thighs and elbows against hard corners of chalk-filled sand-bags. To-night it was easy in the white moonlight. It was really not a trench at all, but a path behind a sand-bag dump. Behind was the open field. There was no parados.

All correct on the two posts in No. 5. It seemed almost unnecessary to have two posts on such a bright night. The outline of the German parapet looked clear enough. Surely the sentries must be almost visible to-night? Right opposite was the dark earth of a sap-head. Our wire looked very near and thin.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir!”

I saw the bombs lying ready in the crease between two sand-bags that formed the parapet top. The pins were bent straight, ready for quick drawing. The bomber was all right; and there was not much wrong with his pal’s bayonet, that glistened in the moonlight.

As usual, I went beyond our right post, until I was met by a peering, suspicious head from the left-hand sentry of “C” Company.

“Who’s that?” in a hoarse low voice, as the figure bent down off the fire-step.

“All right. Officer. ‘B’ Company.”

Then I passed back along the trench to the top of 76 Street; and so on, visiting all the sentries up to 80 A trench, and disturbing all the working-parties.

“Way, please,” I would say to the hindquarters of an energetic wielder of the pick.

“Hi! make way there!” Davies would say in a higher and louder voice when necessary. Then the figure would straighten itself, and flatten itself against the trench, while I squeezed past between perspiring man and slimy sand-bag. This “passing” was an eternal business. It was unavoidable. No one ever said anything, or apologised. No one ever grumbled. It was like passing strap-hangers in the crowded carriage of a Tube. Only it went on day and night.

Craters by moonlight are really beautiful; the white chalk-dust gives them the appearance of snow-mountains. And they look much larger than they really are. On this occasion, as I looked into them from the various bombing-posts, it needed little imagination to suppose I was up in the snows of the Welsh hills. There was such a death-like stillness over it all, too. The view from the Matterhorn was across the widest and deepest of all the craters, and I stood a long time peering across that yawning chasm at the dark, irregular rim of German sand-bags. I gazed fascinated. What was it all about? The sentry beside me came from a village near Dolgelly: was a farmer’s boy. He, too, was gazing across, hardly liking to shuffle his feet lest he broke the silence.

“Good God!” I felt inclined to exclaim. “Has there ever been anything more idiotic than this? What in the name of goodness are you and I doing here?”

So I thought, and so I believe he was thinking.

“Everything all right?” was all I said, as I jumped back into the trench.

“Yes, sir,” was all the answer.

About ten o’clock I went back to Trafalgar Square. There I heard that Thompson of “C” Company had been wounded. From what I could gather he had been able to walk down to the dressing-station, so I concluded he was only slightly hit. But it came as rather a shock, and I wondered whether he would go to “Blighty.”

At eleven I started off for the front trench again, viâ Rue Albert and 78 Street. There was a bit of a “strafe” on. It started with canisters; it had now reached the stage of whizz-bangs as well. I thought little of it, when “woo—woo—woo—woo,” and the Boche turned on his howitzers. They screamed over to Maple Redoubt.

A pause. Then again, and they screamed down just in front of us, evidently after the corner of 78 Street. I did not hesitate, but pushed on. The trench was completely blocked. Rue Albert was revetted with wood and brushwood, and it was all over the place. Davies and I climbed over with great difficulty, the whole place reeking with powder.

“Look out, sir!” came from Davies, and we crouched down. There was a colossal din while shells seemed all round us.

“All right, Davies?” And we pushed on. At last here was 78 Street, and we turned up to find another complete block in the trench. We again scrambled over, and met “A” Company wiring-party, returning for more wire.

“The trench is blocked,” said I, “but you can get over all right.”

We passed in the darkness.

Again “Look out!” from Davies, and we cowered. Again the shells screamed down on us, and burst just behind.

“Good God!” I exclaimed, “those wirers!”

Davies ran back.

There was another block in the trench, but no sign of any men. They were well away by now! But the shell had fallen between us and them before they reached the block in 78 Street!

Out of breath we arrived at the top of 78 Street, to find “A” Company just getting going again after a hot quarter of an hour. Luckily they had had no casualties. All was quiet now, and the moon looked down upon the workers as before. A quarter past eleven.

I worked my way along to the Fort and found there a sentry rather excited because, he said, he had seen exactly the spot from which they had fired rifle-grenades in the strafing just now. I got him to point out the place. It was half-left, and as I looked, sure enough I saw a flash, and a rifle-grenade whined through the air, and fell with a snarl behind our trench.

“Davies,” I said, “get Lance-Corporal Allan to come here with the Lewis gun.”

Davies was gone like a flash.

The Lewis guns had only recently become company weapons, and were still somewhat of a novelty. The Lewis gunners were rather envied, and also rather “downed” by the sergeant-major for being specialists. But this they could not help; and they were, as a matter of fact, the best men in my company.

Allan arrived, with one of the team carrying two spare drums of ammunition. We pointed out the spot, and he laid his gun on the parapet, with the butt against his shoulder, and his finger on the trigger, and waited.

“Flash!”

“There he is, sir!” from the sentry.

“Drrrrrr-r-r-r” purred the Lewis gun, then stopped. Then again, ending with another jerk. There was a silence. We waited five minutes.

“I’ll just empty the magazine, sir.”

“Dr-r-r-r-r.”

Lance-Corporal Allan took off the drum, and handed it to the other Lewis gunner. Then he handed down the gun, and we talked a few minutes. He was very proud of his gun. After a time I sent him back, and made my way along to “A” Company.

There I found Robertson. We talked. A tremendous lot of work had been done, and the big traverse was practically finished.

“I’m knocking off now,” said I. It was a quarter to twelve, and I went along with the “Cease work” message.

“All right,” said Robertson, “I’m just going to have another look at my wirers. I’ll look in as I go down.”

By the time I had reached the top of 76 Street, the trench was full of the clank of the thermos dixies, and the men were drinking hot soup. The pioneers had just brought it up. I stopped and had a taste. It was good stuff. As I turned off down the trench, I heard the Germans start shelling again on our left, but they stopped almost directly. I thought nothing of it at the time.

It was just midnight when I reached Trafalgar Square and bumped into Davidson coming round the corner.

“I was looking for you,” said he. “You’ve heard about Tommy?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But he’s not badly hit, is he?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard. He died at eleven o’clock.”

Died! My God! this was something new. Briefly, tersely, Davidson told me the details. He had been hit in the mouth while working on the parapet, and had died down at the dressing station. I looked hard at Davidson, as we stood together in the moonlight by the big island traverse at Trafalgar Square. Somehow I felt my body tense; my teeth were pressed together; my eyes did not want to blink. Here was something new. I had seen death often: it was nothing new. But it was the first time it had taken one of us. I wondered what Davidson felt; he knew Thompson much better than I. Yet I knew him well enough—only a day or so ago he had come to our billet in the butcher’s shop, and we had talked of him afterwards—and now—dead——

All this flashed through my brain in a second. Meanwhile Davidson was saying,

“Well, I’m just going off for this strafe,” when I heard men running down a trench.

“Quick! Stretcher-bearers. The Captain’s hit,” came from someone in a low voice. The stretcher-bearers’ dug-out was just by where we were standing, and immediately I heard a stir inside, and a head looked out from the waterproof sheet that acted as curtain in front of it.

“Is it a stretcher-case?” a voice asked.

“Yes,” was the reply, and without more ado two stretcher-bearers turned out and ran up 76 Street after the orderly. At that moment there was a thud, and a blazing trail climbed up the sky from the left.

“D——,” I muttered. “We must postpone this strafe. Davidson, we’ll fix up later, see? Only no firing now.” As Davidson disappeared to his gun-position, I ran to the telephone.

“Trench-mortar officer,” I said. “Quick!”

But there is no “quick” about a signaller. He is always there, and methodically, without haste or flurry, he takes down and sends messages. There is no “quickness”; yet there is no delay. If the world outside pulses and rocks under a storm of shells, in the signallers’ dug-out is always a deep-sea calm. So impatiently I watched the operator beat his little tattoo on the buzzer; looked at his face, as the candle-light shone on it, with its ears hidden beneath the receiver-drums, and its head swathed by the band that holds them over the ears. In the corner, the second signaller sat up and peered out of his blanket, and then lay down again.

“Zx? Is there an officer there? Hold on a minute, please. The officer’s at the gun, sir; will you speak to the corporal?”

“Yes.” I already had the receiver to my ear.

“Is that the trench-mortar corporal? Well, go and tell Mr. Macfarlane, will you, to stop firing at once, and not to start again till he hears from Mr. Adams. Right. Right. Thanks.” This last to the signaller as I left the dug-out.

“Thud!” and another football blazed through the sky.

Macfarlane was the officer in charge of the trench-mortar guns of our sector. I knew him well. Davidson was in charge of the Stokes gun, which is a quick-firing trench-mortar gun. Macfarlane’s shells were known as “footballs,” but as they had a handle attached they looked more like hammers as they slowly curved through the air.

We had arranged to “strafe” a certain position in the German support line at five minutes after midnight. But I wanted to stop it before retaliation started. The doctor had gone up the front line, and Robertson would be brought down any minute.

Outside I met Brock. He said little, but it was good to have him there. A long while it seemed, waiting. I started up 76 Street. No sooner had I started than I heard footsteps coming down, and to make room I went back. I was preparing to say some cheery word to Robertson, but when I saw him he was lying quite still and unconscious. I stopped the little doctor.

“Is he bad, Doc?”

“Well, old man, I can hardly say. He’s got a fighting chance,” and he went on. Slowly I heard the stretcher-bearers’ footsteps growing fainter and fainter, and there was silence. Thank God! those footballs had stopped now!

Did I guess that Robertson too was mortally wounded? I cannot say—only my teeth were set, and I felt very wideawake. In a minute both Davidson and Macfarlane came up, Davidson down 76 Street, and Macfarlane from Rue Albert. I told Macfarlane all about it, and as I did so my blood was up. I swore hard at the devils that had done this; and we agreed on a “strafe” at a quarter to one.

I stood alone at Trafalgar Square. There was a great calm sky, and the moon looked down at me. Then with a “thud” the first football went up. Then the Stokes answered.

“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” Up they sailed into the air all together, and exploded with a deafening din.

“Thud—thud!”

“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!”

Then the Boche woke up. Two canisters rose, streamed, and fell, dropping slightly to my right.

But still our trench-mortars went on. Two more canisters tried for Davidson’s gun.

I was elated. “This for Thompson and Robertson,” I said, as our footballs went on methodically.

Then the whizz-bangs began on Trafalgar Square.

I went to the telephone.

“Artillery,” I said briefly. “Retaliate C 1 Sector.”

And then our guns began.

“Scream, scream, scream” they went over.

“Swish—swish” answered the Boche whizz-bangs.

“Phew,” said Sergeant Tallis, the bombing-sergeant, as he looked out of his dug-out.

“More retaliation,” I said to the signaller, and stepped out again.

A grim exaltation filled me. We were getting our own back. I did not care a straw for their canisters or whizz-bangs. It pleased me to hear Sergeant Tallis say “Phew.” My blood was up, and I did not feel like saying “Phew.”

“The officer wants to know if that is enough,” said the telephone orderly, who had come out to find me.

“No,” I answered; “I want more.”

The Boche was sending “heavies” over on to Maple Redoubt. I would go on until he stopped. My will should be master. Again our shells screamed over. There was no reply.

Gradually quiet came back.

Then I heard footsteps, and there was Davidson. His face was glowing too.

“How was that?” he asked.

How was that? He had fired magnificently, though the Boche had sent stuff all round him. How was that?

“Magnificent! We’ve shut them up.”

“I’ve got six shells left. Shall I blaze them off?”

“Oh, no!” said I; “I think we’ve avenged Tommy.”

His face hardened.

“Good night, Bill!”

But I did not feel like sleep. I still stood at the corner, waiting for I knew not what.

“Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” went the Stokes gun. There was a pause, and “bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” came the sound of them bursting. There was a longer pause.

“Bang!” I watched the spark floating through the sky.

“Bang!” came the sound back from the German trench.

I waited. There was no answer. And for the first time that night I fancied the moon smiled.

[Copy]
Daily Summary. C 1. (Left Company)
6 p.m. 18.3.16—3.30 p.m. 19.3.16

(a) Operations.

11.0 p.m. Enemy fired six rifle-grenades from F10/5. The approximate position of the battery was visible from the Fort, and Lewis gun fire was brought to bear on it, which immediately silenced it.

11.30 p.m. Enemy fired several trench-mortar shells and H.E. shells on junction of 78 Street and Rue Albert (F10/6), a few falling in our front line trench by the Matterhorn. No damage was done to our trenches.

12.45 p.m. Our T.M. Battery fired 12 footballs, and our Stokes gun 32 shells at enemy’s front line trench in F10/5. The enemy sent a few canisters over, but then resorted to H.E.’s. Our artillery retaliated. Our Stokes gun continued to fire until enemy was silent, no reply being sent to our last 6 shells.

7.45 a.m. Enemy fired several rifle-grenades and bombs. Our R.G.’s retaliated with 24 R.G.’s.

(b) Progress of Work.

J. B. P. Adams, Lt.,
O.C. “B” Coy.

CHAPTER XI
“WHOM THE GODS LOVE”—(continued)

As I write I feel inclined to throw the whole book in the fire. It seems a desecration to tell of these things. Do I not seem to be exulting in the tragedy? Should not he who feels deeply keep silent? Sometimes I think so. And yet it is the truth, word for word the truth; so I must write it.

In the Straw Palace next morning Davidson and I were sitting discussing last night, when the doctor looked in. He started talking about Vermorel sprayers (the portable tins shaped like large oval milk-cans, filled with a solution useful for clearing dug-outs after a gas attack). One of these was damaged, and I had sent down a note to the M.O. about it.

“How’s Robertson?” I asked at once.

“He died this morning, Bill—three o’clock this morning.”

“Good God,” I said.

“Pretty ghastly, isn’t it? Two officers like that in one night. The C.O. is awfully cut up about it.”

“Robertson dead?” said Davidson.

And so we talked for some minutes. The old doctor was used to these things. He had seen so many officers fall out of line. But to us this was new, and we had not gauged it yet. You might have thought from his quiet jerky sentences that the doctor was almost callous. You would have been wrong.

“Well, I must get on,” he said at last. “So long, Bill. Send that Vermorel sprayer down, will you, and I’ll see to it, and you’ll have it back to-night, probably.”

“Righto.” And the doctor and his orderly disappeared down the Old Kent Road.

Davidson and I talked alone.

“It must be pretty rotten being an M.O.,” he remarked.

Then the “F.L.O.” came in. He is the “Forward liaison officer,” an artillery officer who lives up with the infantry and facilitates co-operation between the two. At the same moment came a cheery Scotch voice outside, and Macfarlane, the “football” officer, looked in.

“Come oot a’ that!” he cried. “Sittin’ indoors on a fine mornin’.”

“Come in,” we said.

But his will prevailed, and we all came out into the sunshine. I had not seen him since last night’s little show. Now he was being relieved by another officer for six days, and I was anxious to know what sort of a man was his successor. But Macfarlane did not know much about him yet.

“Anyway,” said I, “if he’ll only fire like you, we don’t mind.”

“Och!” grunted Macfarlane. “What’s the use of havin’ a gun, and no firin’ it? So long as I get ma footballs up, I’ll plunk them over aw recht.”

“Yes,” I added. “The Boche doesn’t approve of your sort.”

For there were other sorts. There was the trench-mortar officer who was never to be found, but who left a sergeant with instructions not to fire without his orders; there was the trench-mortar officer who “could not fire except by Brigade orders”; there was the trench-mortar officer who was “afraid of giving his position away”; there was the trench-mortar officer who “couldn’t get any ammunition up, you know; they won’t give it me; only too pleased to fire, if only ...”; there was the trench-mortar officer who started firing on his own, without consulting the company commander, just when you had a big working-party in the front trenches; and lastly there were trench-mortar officers like Davidson and Macfarlane.

“Cheero, then,” we said, as Macfarlane went off. “Look us up. You know our billet? We’ll be out to-morrow.”

Then we finished our consultation and divided off to our different jobs.

All that day I felt that there was in me something which by all rights should have “given”: these two deaths should have made me feel different: and yet I was just the same. As I went round the trench, with Davies at my heels, talking to platoon-sergeants, examining wire through my periscope, all in the ordinary way exactly as before, I forgot all about Tommy and Robertson. Even when I came to the place where Robertson had been hit, and saw the blood on the fire-step, and some scraps of cotton wool lying about, I looked at it as you might look at a smashed egg on the pavement, curiously, and then passed on. “Am I indifferent to these things, then?” I asked myself. I had not realised yet that violent emotion very rarely comes close upon the heels of death, that there is a numbness, a blunting of the spirit, that is an anodyne to pain. I was ashamed of my indifference; yet I soon saw that it was no uncommon thing. Besides, one had to “carry on” just the same. There was always a silence among the men, when a pal “goes west”; so now Edwards and I did not talk much, except to discuss the ordinary routine.

I did not get much rest that day. In the afternoon came up a message from the adjutant that we were exploding a mine opposite the Matterhorn at 6.30; our trench was to be cleared from 80 A to the bombing-post on the left of the Loop inclusive. Edwards and I were the only officers in the company, so while he arranged matters with the Lewis-gun teams, I went off to see about getting the trench cleared. I had just sent off the “daily summary,” my copy of which is reproduced on page 179. As I came back along 78 Street, I met Davidson again. He was looking for a new site for his gun, so as to be able to get a good fire to bear on the German lines opposite the Matterhorn. I went with him, and together we found a place behind the big mine-dump to the left of 78 Street, and close to one of our rifle-grenade batteries. As he went off to get his corporal and team to bring the gun over and fix it in position, he said something in a rather low voice.

“What?” I shouted. “Couldn’t hear.”

He came back and repeated it.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. Yes, all right. I expect I’ll hear from the Adjutant. Thanks.”

What he said was that there would be a funeral that night at nine o’clock. Thompson and Robertson were being buried together. He thought I would like to know.

It was close on half-past six, and getting dark. The trenches were cleared, and I was waiting at the head of two platoons that strung out along 78 Street and behind the Loop. Rifles had been inspected; the men had the S.A.A. (small arms ammunition) and bomb boxes with them, ready to take back into the trench as soon as the mine had gone up. I looked at my watch.

“Another minute,” I said.

Then, as I spoke, the earth shook; there was a pause, and a great black cloud burst into the air, followed by a roar of flames. I got up on the fire-step to see it better. It is a good show, a mine. There was the sound of falling earth, and then silence.

“Come on,” I said, and we hurried back into the trench. Weird and eerie it looked in the half-light; its emptiness might have been years old. It was undamaged, as we had expected; only there was loose earth scattered all over the parapet and fire-step.

Then hell broke loose, a crashing, banging, flashing hell that concentrated on the German front line directly opposite. It seemed like stirring up an ant’s nest, and then spraying them with boiling water as they ran about in confusion!

“Bang—bang—bang—bang—bang,” barked Davidson’s gun.

“Thud,” muttered the football-thrower.

“Wheep! Wee-oo, wee-oo, wee-oo,” went the rifle grenades. And all this splendid rain burst with a glorious splash just over the new crater. It was magnificent shooting, and half of us were up on the fire-step watching the fireworks.

Then the Boche retaliated, with canisters and whizz-bangs, and “heavies” for Maple Redoubt; and then our guns joined the concert. It was “hot shop” for half an hour, but at last it died down and there was a great calm. Some of the men were in the trenches for the first time, and had not relished the proceedings overmuch! They were relieved to get the order “Stand down!”

There were several things to be done, working-parties to be arranged, final instructions given to a patrol, Lewis gunners to be detailed to rake the German parapet opposite the Matterhorn all night. A platoon sergeant was worried about his sentries; he had not enough men, having had one or two casualties; and I had to lend him men from a more fortunate platoon. It was quite dark, and nearly half-past seven by the time I got back to Trafalgar Square. Edwards had started dinner, as he was on trench duty at eight o’clock. The sergeant-major was on duty until then.

Davidson looked in on his way down to Maple Redoubt.

“I say, your Stokes were bursting top-hole. We had a splendid view.”

“They weren’t going short, were they?” he asked.

“No. Just right. The fellows were awfully bucked with it.”

“Oh, good. You can’t see a bit from where we are, and the corporal said he thought they were going short. But I’d worked out the range and was firing well over 120, so I carried on. I’m going down to have dinner with O’Brien. I think we’ve done enough to-night.”

Then I saw that he was tired out.

“Rather a hot shop?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said in his casual way. “They were all round us. Well, cheero! I shan’t be up till about ten, I expect, unless there’s anything wanted.”

“Cheero!”

“It’s no joke firing that gun with the Boche potting at you hard with canisters,” I said to Edwards, as Davidson’s footsteps died away.

“He’s the bravest fellow in the regiment,” said Edwards, and we talked of the time when the gun burst in his face as he was firing it, and he told his men that it had been hit by a canister, to prevent their losing confidence in it. I saw him just afterwards: his face was bleeding. It was no joke being Stokes officer; the Germans hated those vicious snapping bolts that spat upon them “One, two, three, four, five,” and always concentrated their fire against his gun. But they had not got him.

“No, he’s inside,” I heard Edwards saying. “Bill. Telephone message.”

The telephone orderly handed me a pink form. Edwards was outside, just about to go on trench duty. It was eight. I went outside. It was bright moonlight again. Grimly, I thought of last night.

“Look here,” I said. “There’s this funeral at nine o’clock. I’ve just got this message. One officer from each company may go. Will you go? I can’t very well go as O.C. Company.” And I handed him the pink form to see.

So we rearranged the night duties, and Edwards went off till half-past eight, while I finished my dinner. Lewis was hovering about with toasted cheese and café au lait. As I swallowed these glutinous concoctions, the candle flickered and went out. I pushed open the door: the moonlight flooded in, and I did not trouble to call for another candle. Then I heard the sergeant-major’s voice, and went out. We stood talking at Trafalgar Square.

“Shan’t be sorry to get relieved to-morrow,” I said. I was tired, and I wondered how long the night would take to pass.

Suddenly, up the Old Kent Road I heard a man running. My heart stopped. I hate the sound of running in a trench, and last night they had run for stretcher-bearers when Robertson was hit. I looked at the sergeant-major, who was biting his lip, his ears cocked. Round the corner a man bolted, out of breath, excited. I stopped him; he nearly knocked into us.

“Hang you,” said I. “Stop! Where the devil...?”

“Mr. Davidson, sir ... Mr. Davidson is killed.”

“Rot!” I said, impatiently. “Pull yourself together, man. He’s all right. I saw him only half an hour ago.”

But as I spoke, something broke inside me. It was as if I were straining, beating against something relentless. As though by words, by the cry “impossible” I could beat back the flood of conviction that the man’s words brought over me. Dead! I knew he was dead.

“Impossible, corporal,” I said. “What do you mean?” For I saw now that it was Davidson’s corporal who stood gazing at me with fright in his eyes.

He pulled himself together at last.

“Killed, sir. It came between us as we were talking. A whizz-bang, sir.”

“My God!” I cried. “Where?”

“Just at the bottom, sir”—the man jerked his hand back down Old Kent Road. “We were just talking, sir. My leave has come through, and he was joking, and saying his would be through soon, when ... oh, Jesus ... I was half blinded.... I’ve not got over it yet, sir.” And the man was all trembling as he spoke.

“He was killed instantly?”

“Ach!” said the man. He made a gesture with his hands. “It burst right on him.”

“Poor fellow,” I said. God knows what I meant. “Send a man with him, sergeant-major,” I added, and plunged up 76 Street.

“Davidson,” I cried. “Davidson dead!”

It was close on midnight, as I stood outside the Straw Palace. Lewis brought me a cup of cocoa. I drank it in silence, and ate a piece of cake. I told the man to go to bed. Then, when he had disappeared, I climbed up out of the trench, and sat, my legs dangling down into it. Down in the trench the moon cast deep black shadows. I looked around. All was bathed in pale, shimmery moonlight. There was a great silence, save for distant machine-gun popping down in the Fricourt valley, and the very distant sound of guns, guns, guns—the sound that never stops day and night. I pressed on my right hand and with a quick turn was up on my feet out of the trench, on the hill-side; for I was just over the brow, on the reverse slope, and out of sight of the enemy lines. I took off my steel helmet and put it on the ground, while I stretched out my arms and clenched my hands.

“So this is War,” I thought. I realised that my teeth were set, and my mouth hard, and my eyes, though full of sleep, wide open: silently I took in the great experience, the death of those well-loved. For of all men in the battalion I loved Davidson best. Not that I knew him so wonderfully well—but ... well, one always had to smile when he came in; he was so good-natured, so young, so delightfully imperturbable. He used to come in and stroke your hair if you were bad-tempered. Somehow he reminded me of a cat purring; and perhaps his hair and his smile had something to do with it? Oh, who can define what they love in those they love?

And then my mind went back over all the incidents of the last few hours. Together we had been through it all: together we had discussed death: and last of all I thought how he had told me of the funeral that was to be at 9 o’clock. And now he lay beside them. All three had been buried at nine o’clock.

“Dead. Dead,” said a voice within me. And still I did not move. Still that numbness, that dulness, that tightening across the brain and senses. This, too, was something new. Then I looked around me, across the moorland. I walked along until I could see down over Maple Redoubt and across the valley, where there seemed a slight white mist; or was it only moonshine?

Suddenly, “Strength.” I answered the voice. “Strong. I am strong.” Every muscle in my body was tingling at my bidding. I felt an iron strength. All this tautness, this numbness, was strength. I remembered last night, the feeling of irresistible will-power, and my eyes glowed. I thought of Davidson, and my eyes glistened: the very pain was the birth of new strength.

Then, even as the strength came, I heard a thud, and away on the left a canister blazed into the air, climbed, swooped, and rushed. And the vulgar din of its bursting rent all the stillness of the night. A second followed suit. And as it, too, burst, it seemed a clumsy mocking at me, a mocking that ran in echoes all along the still valley.

“Strength,” it sneered. “Strength.”

And all my iron will seemed beating against a wall of steel, that must in the end wear me down in a useless battering.

“War,” I cried. “How can my will batter against war?” I thought of Davidson’s smiling face; and then I thought of the blind clumsy canister. And I felt unutterably weak and powerless. What did it matter what I thought or did, whether I was weak or strong? What power had I against this irresistible impersonal machine; this war? And I remembered how an hour or so ago the trench-mortar officer had asked me whether I wanted him to fire or not, and I had answered, “Good God! Do as you d—d well like.” What did it matter what he did? Yet, last night it had seemed to matter everything.

Slowly there came into my mind that picture that later has come to mean to me the true expression of war. Only slowly it came now, a half-formed image of what my spirit alone understood.

“A certain man drew a bow at a venture,” I thought. What of those shells that I had called down last night at my bidding, standing like a god, intoxicated with power, and crying “Retaliate. More retaliation.” Where did they fall? Were other men lying as Davidson lay to-night? Had I called down death? Had I stricken families? Probably. Nay, more than probably. Certainly. Death. Blind death. That was it. Blind death.

And all the time above me was the white moon. I looked at the shadows of my arms as I held them out. Such shadows belonged to summer nights in England ... in Kent.... Oh! why was everything so silent? Could nothing stop this utter folly, this cruel madness, this clumsy death?

And then, at last, the strain gave a little, and my muscles relaxed. I went back and took up my helmet.

“Dead,” the voice repeated within me. And this time my spirit found utterance:

“Damn!” I said. “Oh damn! damn! Damn!”

[Copy]
Special Report—C 1 Section (Left Company)

The mine exploded by us opposite 80 A at 6.30 p.m. last night has exposed about 20 yards of German parapet. A working-party attempting to work there about 12.30 a.m. and again at 2 a.m. was dispersed at once by our rifle and Lewis-gun fire. The parapet has been built up sufficiently to prevent our seeing over it, sand-bags having been put up from inside the trench. Our snipers are closely watching this spot.

J. B. P. Adams, Lieut.
O.C. “B” Coy.

6.30 a.m. 20.3.16.

CHAPTER XII
OFFICERS’ SERVANTS

“Poor devils on sentry,” said Dixon. He shut the door quickly and came over to the fire. Outside was a thick blizzard, and it was biting cold. He sat down on the bed nearest the fire and got warm again.

“Look here, Bill, can’t we possibly get any coal?”

“We sent a fellow into Bray,” I answered, “but it’s very doubtful if he’ll get any. Anyway we’ll see.”

Tea was finished. The great problem was fuel. There were no trees or houses anywhere near 71 North. We had burnt two solid planks during the day; these had been procured by the simple expedient of getting a lance-corporal to march four men to the R.E. dump, select two planks, and march them back again. But by now the planks had surely been missed, and it would be extremely risky to repeat the experiment, even after dark. So a man had been despatched to Bray to try and purchase a sack of coal; also, I had told the Mess-sergeant to try and buy one for us, and bring it up with the rations. This also was a doubtful quantity. Meanwhile, we had a great blaze going, and were making the most of it.

I was writing letters; Dixon was reading; Nicolson was seeing to the rum ration; Clark was singing, “Now Neville was a devil,” and showing his servant Brady how to “make” a hammock. Brady was a patient disciple, but his master had slept in a hammock for the first time in his life the night before and consequently was not a very clear exponent of the art. Apparently certain things that happened last night must be avoided to-night; how they were to be avoided was left to Brady’s ingenuity. Every attempt on his part to solve the problems put before him was carefully tested by Clark, and accepted or condemned according to its merit under the strain of Clark’s body. At such times of testing the strains of “Neville was a devil” would cease. At last Brady hit on some lucky adjustment, and the occupant pronounced his position to be first rate. Then Brady disappeared behind the curtain that screened the servants’ quarters, and the song proceeded uninterruptedly, “Now Neville was a devil
A perfect little devil”;
and Clark rocked himself contentedly into a state of restful slumber.

Meanwhile, behind the arras the retainers prepared their masters’ meal. This dug-out was of the “tubular” pattern, a succession of quarter circles of black iron riveted together at the top, and so forming a long tube, one end of which was bricked up and had a brick chimney with two panes of glass on each side of it; the other led into a small wooden dug-out curtained off. Here abode five servants and an orderly. I should here state that this dug-out was the most comfortable I have ever lived in; as a matter of fact it was not a dug-out at all, but being placed right under the steep bank at 71 North it was practically immune from shelling. The brick chimney and the glass window-panes were certainly almost unique: one imagined it must have been built originally by the R.E.’s for their own abode! Along the sides were four beds of wire-netting stretched over a wooden frame with a layer of empty sand-bags for mattress. In the centre was a wooden table. Over this table, in air suspended, floated Clark.

Meanwhile, as above stated, behind the arras the retainers prepared their masters’ meal, with such-like comments—

“Who’s going for rations to-night?”

“It’s Lewis’s turn to-night, and Smith’s.”

“All right, sergeant.”

“Gr-r-r” (unintelligible).

“Where’s Dodger?”

“Out chasing them hares. Didn’t you hear the Captain say he’d be for it, if he didn’t get one?”

“Gr-r-r. He won’t get any —— hares.”

Here followed a pause, and a lot of noise of plates and boxes being moved. Then there was a continued crackling of wood, as the fire was made up. Followed a lot of coughing, and muttering, and “Phew!” as the smoke got too thick even for that smoke-hardened crew.

“Phew! Stop it. Jesus Christ.”

More coughing, the door was opened, and soon a cold draught sped into our dug-out. There was but one door for both.

“Shut that door!” I shouted.

“Hi, Lewis, your bloke’s calling. Said, ‘Shut that door.’”

Then the door shut. More coughing ensued, but the smoke was better, apparently, for it soon ceased. We were each, by the way, “my bloke” to our respective retainers.

The conversation remained for some time at an inaudible level, until I heard the door open again, and a shout of “Hullo! Dodger. Coo! Jesus Christ! He’s all right, isn’t he? There’s a job for you, sergeant, cooking that bloke. Has the Captain seen him? Hey! Look out of that! You’ll have the blood all over the place. Get a bit of paper.”

The “sergeant” (Private Gray) made no comments on the prospect of cooking the “Dodger’s” quarry, and the next minute Private Davies, orderly, appeared with glowing though rather dirty face holding up a large hare, that dripped gore from its mouth into a scrunched-up ball of Daily Mail held to its nose like a pocket-handkerchief.

“Look here, Dixon,” I said.

“Devil’s alive,” exclaimed Dixon. “Then you’ve got one. By Jove! Splendid! I say, isn’t he a beauty?” And we all went up and examined him. He was a hare of the first order. To-morrow he should be the chef d’œuvre in “B” Company mess at Morlancourt. For we went out of reserve into billets the next morning.

“How did you get him, Davies?”

“Oh! easy enough, sir. I’ll get another if you like. There’s a lot of them sitting out in the snow there. I was only about fifty yards off. He don’t get much chance with a rifle, sir.” (Here his voice broke into a laugh.) “It’s not what you call much sport for him, sir! I got this too, sir!”

And lo! and behold! a plump partridge!

“Oh! they’re as tame as anything, and you can’t help getting them in this snow,” he said.

At last the dripping hare was removed from the stage to behind the scenes, and Davies joined the smothered babel behind the arras.

“Wonderful fellow, old Davies,” said Dixon.

“By the way, Bill,” he added. “How about getting the little doctor in to-night for a hand of vingt-et-un? Can we manage it all right?”

I was Mess-president for the time, Edwards being away on a course.

“Oh! yes,” I answered. “Rather. I’ll send a note.”

As I was writing a rather elaborate note (having nothing better to do) requesting the pleasure of the distinguished presence of the medical officer, the man who had been to Bray for coal came and reported a fruitless errand. He seemed very depressed at his failure, but cheered up when we gave him a tot of rum to warm him up. (All rum, by the way, is kept in the company officer’s dug-out; it is the only way.)

Meanwhile, the problem of fuel must be faced. A log was crackling away merrily enough, but it was the very last. Something must be done.

“Davies,” I called out.

“Sir?” came back in that higher key of his.

He appeared at the door.

“Are you going down for rations?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, look here. There’s a sack of coal ordered from Sergeant Johnson, but I’m none too sure it’ll come up to-night. I only ordered it yesterday. But I want you to make sure you get it if it is there; in fact you must bring it, whether it’s there or not. See? If you don’t, you’ll be for it.”

This threat Davies took for what it was worth. But he answered:

“I’ll get it, sir. I’ll bring something along somehow.”

And Davies never failed of his word.

“Good! Do what you can.”

Half an hour later he staggered in with a sack of coal, and plumped it down, all covered with snow. The fire was burning very low, and we were looking at it anxiously. The sight of this new supply of fuel was wonderful good to the eyes. So busy were we in stoking up, that we forgot to ask Davies if he had had any trouble in getting it. After all, it did not matter much. There was the coal; that was the point.

Behind the curtain there was a great business. Lewis and Brady had brought up the rations; Gray was busy with a big stew, and Richards was apparently engaged in getting out plates and knives and forks from a box; Davies was reading aloud, in the middle of the chaos, from the Daily Mail. Sometimes the Mess-president took it into his head to inspect the servants’ dug-out; but it was an unwise procedure, for it took away the relish of the meal, if you saw the details of its preparation. So long as it was served up tolerably clean, one should be satisfied.

At half-past seven came in Richards to lay the table. The procedure of this was first to take all articles on the table and dump them on the nearest bed. Then a knife, fork, and spoon were put to each place, and a varied collection of tin mugs and glasses arranged likewise; then came salt and mustard in glass potted-meat jars; bread sitting bareback on the newspaper tablecloth; and a bottle of O.V.H. and two bottles of Perrier to crown the feast. All this was arranged with a deliberate smile, as by one who knew the exact value of things, and defied instruction in any detail of laying a table. Richards was an old soldier, and he had won from Dixon at first unbounded praise; but he had been found to possess a lot too much talk at present, and had been sat on once or twice fairly heavily of late. So now he wore the face of one who was politely amused, yet, knowing his own worth, could forbear from malice. He gave the table a last look with his head on one side, and then departed in silence.

Suddenly the door flew open, and the doctor burst in, shuddering, and knocking the snow off his cap.

“By Jove, Dicker,” he cried. “A bad night to go about paying joy visits. But, by Jove, I’m jolly glad you asked me. There’s the devil to pay up at headquarters. The C.O.’s raving, simply. Some blighter has pinched our coal, and there’s none to be got anywhere. Good Lord, it’s too hot altogether. I couldn’t stand Mess there to-night at any price. I pity old Dale. The C.O.’s been swearing like a trooper! He’s fair mad.”

“Never mind,” he added after a pause. “I think we’ve raised enough wood to cook the dinner all right. See you’ve got coal all right.”

I hoped to goodness Dixon wouldn’t put his foot in it. But he rose to the occasion and said:

“Oh, yes. We ordered some coal from Sergeant Johnson. Come on, let’s start. Hi! Richards!”

And Richards came in with the stew in a tin jug such as is used in civilised lands to hold hot water of a morning. And so the doctor forgot the Colonel’s rage.

Late that night, after the doctor had gone, I called Davies.

“Davies,” I said, “where did you get that coal?”

“Off the ration cart, sir.”

“Was it ours, do you think?”

“Well, sir, I don’t somehow think it was. You see, the ration cart came up, and the man driving it was up by the horse—and I saw the bag o’ coal there, like. So I said to Lewis, ‘Lewis, you see to the rations. I’ll take the coal up quick!’ Then I heard the man up by the horse say, ‘There’s coal there for headquarters.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘that’s all right, but this here was ordered off Sergeant Johnson yesterday,’ I said. And I made off quick.”

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Was Sergeant Johnson there?”

“No,” answered Davies. “He came later. I said to Lewis just now, ‘What about that coal?’ And he said Sergeant Johnson came just after and started kicking up some bit of a row, sir, about some coal; but Lewis, he said he didn’t know nothing about any coal, and the man at the horse he didn’t know who I was, sir; it was quite dark, you see, sir. Lewis said Sergeant Johnson got the wind up a bit, sir, about losing the coal....”

“Look here Davies,” I remarked solemnly, “do you realise that that coal was for headquarters ...”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” began Davies.

“But I can,” said I. “Look here, you must just set a limit somewhere. I know I said you must get some coal, somewhere. But I wasn’t exactly thinking of bagging the C.O.’s coal. As a matter of fact he was slightly annoyed, though doubtless if he knew it was No. 14 Davies, “B” Company orderly, he would abate his wrath. Do you realise this is a very serious offence?”

Davies’ mouth wavered. He could never quite understand this method of procedure. He looked at the blazing fire, and his eyes twinkled. Then he understood.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“All right,” I replied. “Don’t let it occur again.”

And it never did—at least, not headquarters coal.

We did not get back to Morlancourt till nearly half-past three the next day. Things were not going well in our billet at the butcher’s shop. Gray, the cook, and two of the servants had been sent on early to get the valises from the quartermaster’s stores, and to have a meal ready. We arrived to find no meal ready, and what was worse, the stove not lit. Coal could not be had from the stores, was the statement that greeted us.

“What the blazes do you mean?” shouted Dixon. We were really angry as well as ravenous; for it was freezing hard, and the tiles on the floor seemed to radiate ice-waves.

“Have you asked Madame if she can lend us a little to go on with?” I queried.

No, they had not asked Madame.

Then followed a blaze of vituperation, and Richards was sent at the double into the kitchen. Soon Madame appeared, with sticks and coal, and lit the fire. We watched the crackles, too cold to do anything else. The adjoining room, where Dixon and I slept, was an ice-house, also tiled. It was too cold to talk even.

“C’est froid dans les tranchés,” said I in execrable French.

“Mais oui, m’sieur l’officier,” said Madame, deeply sympathising.

I thought of the blazing fire in 71 North, but it was too cold to say anything more. What matter if Madame imagined us standing in a foot of snow? So we should have been for the most part had we been in the line the last two days, instead of in reserve.

Soon it began to get less icy, and the stove looked a little less of the blacklead order. It was a kitchen-range really, with a boiler and oven; but the boiler was rather leaky. Now, as the coal blazed up, life began to ebb back again.

Confound it! The stove was smoking like fury. Pah! The flues were all full of soot. Dixon was rather an expert on stoves, and said that all that was needed was a brush. Where had all the servants disappeared to? Why wasn’t someone there? I opened the door into our bedroom—a cold blast struck me in the face. In the middle of the room, unopened, sat our two valises, like desert islands in a sea of red tiles.

“Hang it all, this is the limit,” I said, and ran out into the street, and into the next house, where the servants’ quarters were. And there, in the middle of a pile of half-packed boxes, stood Gray, eating a piece of bread. Now I discovered afterwards that the boxes had just been brought in by Cody and Lewis, that Davies and Richards had gone after the coal, and were at that moment staggering under the weight of it on their way from the stores, and that Gray could not do anything more, having unpacked the boxes, until the coal came. But I did not grasp these subtle details of the interior economy of the servants’ hall, and I broke out into a real hot strafe. Why should Gray be standing there eating, while the officers shivered and starved?

I returned to Dixon, and found Clark and Nicolson there; and together we all fumed. Then in came the post-corporal with an accumulation of parcels, and we stopped fuming.

“By Jove,” I exclaimed, a few minutes later. “The hare. I had forgotten le—what is it, lièvre, lèvre? I forget. Never mind. Lewis, bring the hare along, and ask Madame in your best manner if she would do us the honour of cooking it for us. To-night, now.”

Presently Madame came in, with Lewis standing rather sheepishly behind. She delivered a tornado of very fluent French: “eau-de-vie,” “eau-de-vie,” was all I could disentangle.

“Eau-de-vie?” I asked her. “Pourquoi eau-de-vie?”

“Brandy,” explained Dixon.

“I know that,” said I (who did not know that eau-de-vie was brandy?)

“Brandy,” said Dixon, “to cook the hare with. That’s all she wants. Oui, oui, Madame. Eau-de-vie. Tout de suite. The doctor’s got brandy. Send Lewis along to the doctor to ask him to dinner, and borrow a little brandy.”

So Lewis was despatched, and returned with a little brandy, but the doctor could not come.

“Never mind,” we said.

Meanwhile some tea was on the table, and bully and bread and butter; there was no sugar, however. Richards smiled and said the rats had eaten it all in 71 North, but Davies was buying some. Whenever anything was missing, these rats had eaten it, just as they were responsible for men’s equipment and packs getting torn, and their emergency rations lost. In many cases the excuse was quite a just one; but when it came to rats running off with canteen lids, our sympathy for the rat-ridden Tommy was not always very strong.

To-day, a new reason was found for the loss of three teaspoons.

“Lost in the scuffle, sir, the night of the raid,” was the answer given to the demand for an explanation.

“What scuffle?” I asked.

“Why, the box got upset, sir, the night of the raid when we all stood to in a bit of a hurry, sir.”

I remembered there had been some confusion and noise behind the arras that night when the Germans raided on the left; apparently all the knives and forks had fallen to the ground and several had snapped under the martial trampling of feet when our retainers stood to arms. For many days afterwards when anything was lost, one’s anger was appeased by “Lost in the scuffle, sir.” At last it got too much of a good thing.

“Why this new teapot, Davies?” I said a few days later.

“The old one was lost in the scuffle, sir.”

“Look here,” I said. “We had the old one yesterday, and this morning I saw it broken on Madame’s manure heap. Here endeth ‘lost in the scuffle.’ See? Go back to rats.”

“Very good, sir.”

That night, about ten o’clock, when Clark, Nicolson, and Brownlow (who had been our guest) had gone back to their respective billets, Dixon and I were sitting in front of the stove, our feet up on the brass bar that ran along the top-front of it, on a comfortable red-plush settee. This settee made amends for very many things, such as: a tile floor; four doors, one of which scraped most excruciatingly over the tiles, and another being glass-panelled allowed in much cold air from the butcher’s shop; no entry for the servants save either through the butcher’s shop or through the bedroom viâ the open window; very little room to turn round in, when we were all there; a smell of stale lard that permeated the whole establishment; and finally, the necessity of moving the settee every time Madame or Mam’selle wanted to get to either the cellar or the stairs.

But now all these disabilities were removed, everyone else having gone off to bed, and Dixon and I were talking lazily before turning in also. I had a large pan of boiling water waiting on the top of the range, and my canvas bath was all ready in the next room.

“Ah! the discomfort of it!” ejaculated Dixon. “The terrible discomfort of it all!”

“How they are pitying us at home,” I replied. “‘Those rabbit holes! I can’t think how you keep the water out of them at all!’ Can’t you hear them? ‘And isn’t that bully beef most horribly tough and hard! Ugh! I couldn’t bear it.’” I tried to imitate a lady’s voice, but it was not a great success. I was out of practice.

“Yes,” said Dixon, thinking of the extraordinarily good jugged hare produced by Madame. Then his thoughts turned to Davies, the hunter who was responsible for the feast.

“Wonderful fellow, old Davies,” he added. “In fact they’re all good fellows.”

“He’s a shepherd boy,” I said. “Comes from Blaenau Festiniog, a little village right up in the Welsh mountains. I know the place. A few years ago he was a boy looking after sheep out on the hills all day; a wide-eyed Welsh boy, with a sheepdog trotting behind him. He’s rather like a sheepdog himself, isn’t he?”

“Gad, he’s a wonderful fellow. But they all are, you know, Bill. Look at your chap, Lewis; great clumsy red-faced fellow, with his piping voice, that sometimes gets on your nerves.”

“He’s too lazy at times,” I broke in; “but he’s honest, dead honest. He was a farm hand! Good heavens, fancy choosing a fellow out of the farmyard to act as valet and waiter! I remember the first time he waited! He was so nervous he nearly dropped everything, and his face like that fire! O’Brien said he was tight!”

“Richards talks a jolly sight too much, sometimes—but after all what does it matter? They try their best; and think how we curse them! Look at the way I cursed about that stove this afternoon: as soon as anything goes wrong, we strafe like blazes, whether it’s their fault or not. A fellow in England would resign on the spot. But they don’t care a damn, and just carry on. This cursing’s no good, Bill. Hang it all, they’re doing their bit same as we are, and they have a d—d sight harder time.”

“I don’t think they worry much about the strafing,” I said. “It’s part of the ordinary routine. Still, I agree, we do strafe them for thousands of things that aren’t their fault.”

“They’re a sort of safety-valve,” he answered with a laugh. “I don’t know how it is, one would never dream of cursing the men like we do these fellows. You know as well as I do, Bill, the only way to run a company is by love. It’s no earthly use trying to get the men behind you, by cursing them day and night. I really must try and stop cursing these servants. After all, they’re the best fellows in the world.”

“The men curse all right,” I said, “when they don’t get their food right. I guess we’re all animal, after all. It’s merely a method of getting things done quickly. Besides, you know perfectly well you won’t be able to stop blazing away when there’s no fire or food. It creates an artificial warmth.”

“D—d artificial,” laughed he.

There was a silence.

“By Jove, Bill,” he said at last, getting up to go to bed. “When’s this war going to end?”

To which I made no reply, but moved my bath out of the icy bedroom and dragged it in front of the fire.