and pointed to the wounded man. Said the Grenadiers who were being relieved: "Come and get him!" A couple of German stretcher-bearers came out and bore their comrade away, not thirty yards from our trench, while our men held their fire.
In the same relief it fell to the Irish to examine the body of a single German who had crept up and of a sudden peered into our front-line trench, where a Grenadier promptly shot him. He dropped on the edge of the parapet and lay "like a man praying." Since he had no rifle, it was assumed he was a bomber; but after dark they found he was wholly unarmed. At almost the same hour of the previous night another German came to precisely the same end in the same posture on the right flank of the line. Whether these two were deserters or scouts who would pretend to be deserters, if captured, was never settled. The trenches were full of such mysteries. Strange trades, too, were driven there. A man, now gone to Valhalla, for he was utterly brave, did not approve of letting dead Germans lie unvisited before the lines. He would mark the body down in the course of his day's work, thrust a stick in the parados to give him his direction, and at night, or preferably when the morning fog lay heavy on the landscape, would slip across to his quarry and return with his pockets filled with loot. Many officers had seen C's stick at the back of the trench. Some living may like to learn now why it was there.[1]
A draft of one hundred men, making good the week's losses, came in on the 8th February under Captain G. E. Young, Lieutenants T. Allen and C. Pease, and 2nd Lieutenant V. W. D. Fox. Among them were many wounded who had returned. They fell to at once
- ↑ "I saw him slip back over the parapet in the mornin' mist, the way he always did, just behind the officer going the rounds. An' his pockets was bulgin'. I had been layin' for him a long while because I knew he had something I wanted. So I went up behind him and I said quite quiet, 'C, I'll take your night's pickin's if it's the same to you.' He knew it had to be, an' to do him justice he bore it well. 'Well, anyway, Sergeant,' says he, ''tis worth five francs to you, is it not?' 'Yes,' says I and I gave him the five francs then an' there, an' he emptied his pockets into my hands. 'Twas worth all of five francs to me, C's work that night. An' he never bore me malice thereafter."—A Sergeant's Tale.
