He moved forward. The first step was difficult, the next was easier, the subsoil had lost its birdlime tenacity and the slush was not as dense. A few steps further and Fitzgerald breathed. He was going up an incline, getting out of it his head was almost parallel with the rim of the trench. He burst into song: "Four stick standers, Four lilly wanders, A hooker And a crooker And a swing about. Three sheep sharahan, Owned by Eamon Garahan, A ribag And a thonag And a coat of bawnagh brockagh." The song suddenly stopped. A heavy shell swept over his head and burst very near. Another followed and another and Fitzgerald noticed that he had reached a junction where a number of trenches criss-crossed. "Another damned labyrinth," he muttered. "Out you get, on to the top, Rifleman Fitzgerald," he ordered, apostrophising himself. And out he did get. It was now he discovered that his rifle had vanished, "Oh, I suppose it's in the mud," he muttered. "Lucky I'm not." A trench showed some distance away. He made for it, slipped over the parapet and landed on something soft which moved. "Gawd Orlmighty! Wot the ---- are yer ---- up ter," said a soldier, rising from the mud. "They're shelling us," said Fitzgerald. "You'd better rouse up. What trench is this?" "The support," said the man, "We're waitin' for a mine to go up or somefing." The rest of the men were standing at their posts, alert and ready. The enemy had become nasty and were using an exceptionally heavy shell on the sector, but as yet it was bursting wide. "A nine-point-two," somebody remarked to Fitzgerald, adding: "And Gawd! it doesn't 'arf send the dirt flyin' about. They'll attack, maybe." "Any officers near here, Spudhole?" Fitzgerald asked, for he had recognised the voice of his comrade Bubb. "'Orficers," said Spudhole. "Yes, Cap'n Thorley was about 'ere a minute ago; 'e.... Gor blimey, there's the shell again!" Fitzgerald listened and heard "her" coming, crooning out the unknown. It was the big shell. Gathering volume it approached, an inevitable terror, a messenger of death. There was a hurried stampede to a near dug-out and Fitzgerald found himself in the crush and carried forward into the dark recess of a deep shelter. In the next few moments he was conscious of many things, of a sudden fall to the soft, muddy floor, of a choking sensation in the throat, a monstrously futile effort to drag himself clear of the man who fell on top of him, of nervous laughter and fierce imprecations. Then he sank into forgetfulness. The shell had blown the dug-out in on its occupants. CHAPTER XI A SCRAP We're well in the doin's. No more to be said-- The orficer wounded; the sergeant is dead. If somethin' don't 'appen and that very soon, We'll not have a man in the blurry platoon-- Blurry platoon, Pore ole platoon, Always it's for it; this blurry platoon.