That night I slept in the trench, slept heavily. I put my equipment under me, that kept the damp away from my bones. In the morning Stoner told an amusing story. During the night he wanted to see Bill, but did not know where the Cockney slept.
"Bill," I replied, speaking though asleep.
"Bill," I muttered turning on my side, seeking a more comfortable position.
"Do you know where Bill is?" shouted Stoner.
"Yes, Bill!" he said, "Bill. B-i-double l, Bill. Where is here?"
"He's here," I said getting to my feet and holding out my water bottle. "In here." And I pulled out the cork.
I was twitted about this all day. I remembered nothing of the incident of the water bottle although in some vague way I recollected (p. 207) Stoner asking me about Bill.
On the following day I had a chance of visiting the scene of the conflict. All the wounded were now carried away, only the dead remained, as yet unburied.
The men were busy in the trench which lay on the summit of a slope; the ground dipped in the front and rear. The field I came across was practically "dead ground" as far as rifle fire was concerned. Only one place, the wire front of the original German trench, was dangerous. This was "taped out" as our boys say, by some hidden sniper. Already the parados was lined with newly-made firing positions, that gave the sentry view of the German trench some forty or fifty yards in front. All there was very quiet now but our men were making every preparation for a counter attack. The Engineers had already placed some barbed wire down; they had been hard at it the night before; I could see the hastily driven piles, the loosely flung intricate lines of wire flung down anyhow. The whole work was part of what is known as "consolidation of our position."
Many long hours of labour had yet to be expended on the trench (p. 208) before a soldier could sleep at ease in it. Now that the fighting had ceased for a moment the men had to bend their backs to interminable fatigues. The war, as far as I have seen it is waged for the most part with big guns and picks and shovels. The history of the war is a history of sandbags and shells.
We are marching back from the battle, Where we've all left mates behind, And our officers are gloomy, And the N.C.O.'s are kind, When a Jew's harp breaks the silence, Purring out an old refrain; And we thunder through the village Roaring "Here we are again."