And We Go On by Will R. Bird Page B

were almost sick from exposure to rains and mud. We had been almost drowned out of our shelters. More new men had joined us and among them was a pair, Slim and Joe, that no one wanted near them. “Slim” was a tall, thin, bony lad, not over seventeen, uneducated, who had been living like a gypsy until the war, and who did not know his parents. Joe, his mate, was a French-Canadian, who also was uneducated, and who had no dependents. They did not get any mail, were very slovenly in dress and drill, and would not wash or shave unless forced to do so.
    As we entered the communication trench Slim fell in at my heels; Arthur was next to him and then Laurie. An officer named Stewart took charge of us, and we filed from the cover of the trench to open ground. Sharp orders were hissed. We had to dig in along tapes and we were in range of both snipers and machine guns. The mud was deep and we didnot know our location. Each man worked frantically. A brigade wirer led the way and it so happened that I was first man out and farthest over. All around us there was a clamour of shell fire and machine guns were rattling. It was quite dark and flares were soaring in quick succession.
    Slim stuck close to me and I had to thrust him back in his position. We dug and dug. I struck barbed wire in tangles, and the brigade man heard me and came with his cutters. As he left he groaned and sank to earth, shot through the body. Bullets were snapping all around us and Slim got down on his knees and huddled close to the earth, yet never slackened his shovelling. I did not draw a full breath until I had gotten below my wire, then I looked around. Arthur was sitting in the mud. I thrust past Slim and went to him and asked if he were sick. He looked at me and shook his head and would not speak. I insisted and he said, so low I could hardly hear him, “Freddy was right.”
    â€œAre you hit?” I asked, and he shook his head, then got up and began to work. I went back to my place, puzzled. He had never acted queerly before.
    Almost immediately there was a call for stretcher bearers and then came word that Lieutenant Stewart, a finely built man, had been shot through the stomach. He died that night. I worked on and Slim kept pace with me. We soon had our strip as deep as required, and at last came word for us to go back. We started and had not gone a dozen feet when Arthur pitched over on the bank, shot through the head. A chill crept over me, weakened me. How had he known?
    It was daylight when we reached camp, but we sat about a time, cleaning mud from our legs, before we lay down to sleep, and we talked about Arthur. Freddy did not say a word; he had got so that he would not talk. Charley was deeply impressed, though he had not been one of the six. “None of us’ll ever see home again,” he said, as he crawled from sight. “We might as well go now as any time.”
    That night we marched out again, tired as we were. Near me was a lad named Gilroy, a plucky little chap whose boots had almost crippled him. He took them off as we rested by a road and the flesh was worn raw and bleeding. He would not report to the sergeant. Once more we worked under machine gun fire, but were mostly deepening the trenches and making posts, and none of our lot was hit. We staggered and stumbled back to our Camp at daylight, and hardly knew what we were doing. We were moving automatically, trying to follow the man in front, shakingwith cold, dull, heavy-eyed in the gray light, every muscle clamouring for rest, for the torpor of sleep. Starved as we were, we would not take more than a drink of tea that waited us before we wormed, mud and all, into our shelters.
    A third night we went, forcing ourselves into action, and the Hun shelled more fiercely than before. In the Quarry Line we came in contact with a line of mules going up with rations and ammunition. As our party took the near side of the embankment, the sides of the sunken road, whizz