Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 83: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

KING’S the barbwire. He had seen many dawns since 1914 and he was more bored than in- terested—unlike the men of the new draft that had come into the line for .the first time the night before. “Another blurry day,” he yawned, “ and like to be a peaceful one for a change. Roll on duration or a hospital cot! Keep your ’ead below the top, that big lad, if you want to stay with us.” Tuesday, standing on the firing step that was carved from the clay, eighteen inches above the floor of the trench, grinned amia- bly. “Looks real quiet, an’ that’s a fact, sarge. I was just a-lookin’ for the front line I read about. Comin’ up in the dark into this ditch the way we did I kinda lost track of the way—” A whisper—the merest, tiniest hiss in the world—passed by his left ear. “Climb down, you blurry ass,” Bowles mumbled, stuffing black tobacco into a blacker pipe. ‘ This is the front line an’ you'll bleedin’ well know it, too, if that sniper locates you.”’ Tuesday ducked hurriedly. ‘ You kid- din’ me? Say, we dug better trenches than this back in Camberham! Deeper an’ safer, too! Where’s all the sandbags an’ the concrete an’ all that?” “ Best write to the noospapers, mate, an’ make yer complaint,’ Bowles soothed. “Like as not they'll send Lloyd George an’ a bunch of them bloomin’ patriots out to see wot the brave lads in karky is doin’ holdin’ the line fer England. “ Then we'll build ’em nice an’ deep an’ safe an’ them blokes will sneak up like a bunch of scared ’ens, take a quick dekko around an’ run back to write about the ’orrors they seen. Course it’s the front line. You’re in the poor, blurry infantry now, not the glorious Army Service Corps an’ the brave lads of the military police—”’ “When do we eat?” Tuesday asked. “I could punish a good—”’ “ Wot?” Bowles looked around with a feeble imitation of well bred annoyance. “Do you mean to tell me them waiters ’asn’t shown up yet with the ’ot breakfasts? Things ’as come to a pretty pass when a pore British soldier don’t get ’is kippered 553 ‘erring of a morning. Like as not the blighters ’as lost their napkins or somethin’. They'll be forgettin’ to draw our baths next. Well, we’ll just ’ave to get along with bully beef. Just it this tin of jam with your bayonet a bit an’ we'll see wot’s in- side.”’ Tremanner, examining a map he had picked up in Poperinghe, reached for the periscope and shoved its top cautiously over the edge of the parapet. He beckoned to Harmon and handed the periscope to him. “Take a look through that and Ill show you something interesting.” Harmon, placing his eye to the aperture, took his first look at No Man’s Land. Immediately in front of the trench rusted barbwire, in which were discarded bully beef tins and débris of all kinds, made a thin and ineffectual looking barrier. Be- yond stretched several hundred yards of overgrown farmland, shattered tree trunks and acid-burned shrubbery. In the dis- tance was a thin, whitish line running up- hill and down, a line of sandbags, behind which keen enemy eyes were on the watch. Here and there on the low horizon were crumbling walls, the remains of flourishing communities of Flemish farmers. Directly in the rear, two or three miles away, was the only remaining Jandmark—the tottering wall of the Cloth Hall at Ypres. As Har- mon gazed at the deserted and ruined city, a shell plowed lazily through the sky over- head and fell with a dull crash near the Cloth Hall, raising a cloud of dust that set- tled down immediately. “Ypres,” Tremanner murmured. “ That’s what we’re here to defend—such as it is. Hardly looks worth while, does it? But that pile of broken stone and plaster repre- sents an ideal. We'll never let them get it,” “Not likely,” Bowles snorted, having opened his can of jam. ‘“ Too many lads ‘as gone West now to let Fritz ’ave it. ‘ Eeps ’ they calls it an’ they are right. It’s ’eaps an’ ’eaps of ruins now.” Tremanner placed a finger on the map. “Which direction is Langvoorde, ser- geant, from here?” Bowles jerked his finger toward the south. “You'll see a church tower over there— KHAKI. Gomichbooks (EO)