With the GunsStreet, Cecil J. C. (Cecil John Charles)
History
With the Guns
Street, Cecil J. C. (Cecil John Charles)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Artillery operations, British; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives, British
supply the deficiency--and the roof has collapsed, leaving only the
chimney-stacks standing. "That might do for you," says our guide,
"750th Battery used it for months." "How do we get there?"--for the
country looks suspiciously open and deserted beyond our present retreat
behind the hedge. "Oh, they don't often snipe here, we can walk across
one at a time, or there's the communication trench," pointing to the
streamlet. Heroes all, we elect a soldier's death rather than wet feet,
and the first of our party starts to walk across the open. Before he
reaches the shelter of the house, zip! comes a bullet with the ugly
sound that marks the rifle fired in one's own direction. He makes a
wild dive for shelter, from which he subsequently watches us as we
wade, cursing its maker, knee-deep along the communication trench, and
exhorts us to be careful to change our socks when we get home. After
much argument, we decide that the house will suit us, and we splash
homewards through our clay-coloured rivulet, by no means comforted
by the thought that this is the only safe means of access to our
new-found property, unless we propose to go there before daylight and
stay till after dark. Small things provoke humour where amusements are
few. I subsequently discovered that the depth of water in this trench
was about two inches less than the length of my gum-boots, and that,
therefore, by careful progression, I could navigate it safely. Whilst
doing this one day, a large dog, presumably frightened by a shell
bursting near him--although animals of all kinds get extraordinarily
accustomed to such things as a rule--plunged into the water within
a foot of me. The wave of his impact overflowed my boots--they have
never been really dry since--and the splash soaked me to the skin. As
I stood telling the world at large what I thought of war and dogs and
trenches, a gentle voice, near at hand but unseen, demanded of me, in
the catchword of the day, "Daddy, what did _you_ do in the great war?"
A sense of humour will make, even of war, the finest game in the world.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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