MOODS OF A MOMENT.

Otago Witness, Issue 3292, 18 April 1917, Page 58

MOODS OF A MOMENT.

By Patiuck MacGiix.

"If it was not for one thing and another the life in the trenches would be the finest in the world," said Spudhole, the Cockney youth, perching himself on the banquette and looking through a periscope at the enemy's lines. " I 'ave no love for shells, 'specially when out in the open, even if the shells are burstin' arf a, mile away." " And is that what ye would he most afraid of?" asked an Irishman who was sitting on the fire step writing a letter.

" Naw, not that altogether," said the Cockney. "I don't like the rifle; the saucy little beggar's alius on the go." "And what would ye be most afraid of, Six-fut-two?" the Irishman asked a massive soldier who was cleaning his bayonet with a strip of emery cloth. "Bombs," said the giant—- especially the one 1 met in the trench a week ago when I was going round the traverse, it lay on the floor in front of me." I hardly knew what it was at first, and I stood there stock still and gazed at it like a tool. The Germans had just flung it into the trench, and there it lay making up its mind to explode. It was looking at me, and I could see its eyes " "Git out!" said Spudhole. "Of course, you wouldn't see the thing's eyes, ' said the big man. " You lack the imagination. But I saw its eyes, and the left one was winking at me. 1 almost turned .to jelly with fear, and the Lord knows how I got back round the corner. I did, hefwever, and then the bomb went oangl 'Twas some bang that, and I otfen hear it in my sleep yet." "We'll never 'ear the end of that bomb," said Spudhole. "For my own part I am more afraid of " "What?" "—the sergeant-major than anythink in this world or the next!" "I have got thrilled by many a thing out here," said the big man. " I don't mean that I've got the wind up every time, though that has happened once or twice. Do you mind the day we marched up to the trenches, and passed through the village of E »»* "Course I mind it," said Spudhole. The 'ouses was all flyin' through the streets and the shells was burstin' all over the place." -"Well, 'twasn't the shells," said the big man; " 'twas a woman. She was a thin, middle-aged person, and she was standing at the door of an estaminet that had its roof blown off. She didn't seem to be taking the least bit heed of the shells, and every other person in the place was down in the cellars. You mind how the officer gave the order, 'Eyes right!' and we all turned in salute to the woman. , " 'What's that for?' I asked the man next me, and he' told me. ' That woman's four children were killed last night,' he said. "I felt as if I had got a blow in the face when I heard that, and for weeks after I couldn't get the face of that poor creature out of my mind." " I had a thrill, as you call it, one night when we were in reserve in Givenchy?" said the Irishman. "I was in another section then, and the stink of the cellar where we were billeted was beyond talking about. Be day it was bad enough, but at two o'clock in the morning 'twas past anything that I've ever known. At that hour I woke up and went outside to get a wee breath o' fresh air. Outside it was-very lonesome, with a church at the rear, and its spire . Mattered .down, and the graveyard with the bones of the dead shovelled out be shell-fire and scattered all over the place. . . •... As I stood there I heard a groan as if a wee child was cryin', and then a gurgle as if someone was gettin' strangled, and after that a lot of sobbin' as if somebody was dyin'. Perhaps the surroundin's had a lot to do with it; but, anyway, I felt as frightened as if I was lookin' on the face of a ghost. Where did thim cries come from? It might have been a stray cat or maybe rats, for sounds are so strange in the dark. I did .not wander round and seek out the cause of the sounds, for it was no use that, seein' that the houses were battered down, the rooms blocked up, and the cellars filled with all sorts of muck. 'Twas at the beginnin' of the war, too, and the people had just gone away. What might have happened I could not say. Maybe it was the cries of a child that was left behind when the others went off that I heard. Strange things happen in war time. I've seen some; but that night I'll never forget." "It's hard to get to like these bloomin' trenches," said Bill. "It almost makes me pray every time I come up to tliem." "They're not all ba - d," said the big man. " Some of them are cushy enough." "Cushy!" exclaimed Spudhole, looking over the parapet, and then bobbing down and lighting a cigarette. " Chuck it, Six-fut-two, chuck it! Blimey, they are cushy enough if a bloke isn't caught by a shell comin' in; if you're not bombed from the sky or mined from under the ground; if a sniper doesn't snipe 'arf yer 'ead off; if gas doesn't send yer splutterin' to 'eaven, or flies don't jsend yer ter the orspital wiv disease; or rifle-grenades, pip-squeaks, whizz-bangs, and Minnies don't blow yer brains out when ye lie at the bottom of a trench wiv yer nose to the ground like a rat in a trap—if it wasn't for these things, as well as a few more, this trench wouldn't be such a bad locality." He blew a puff of smoke into the air, stuck his fingers behind his cartridge pouches, and looked across No Man's Land. " Keep yer head down and don't get it blown off," said the Irishman. "Then ye can tell us about the other things that ye have not mentioned." " Blimey, there's a million ! There's the stink of the dead blokes, there's th-s muck fallin' in yer tea, there's the dugout that lets the l'ain come in, there's the bloke snorin' as won't let yer go to sleep, there's the vermin, the fatigues—there'.: one damned tiling piled on top of another in this 'ei"3 war " Bill paused, sweating at every pore, borrowed 'a cigarette from the Irishman, and let it off the stump in his hand. "B .ft wot does it matter as long as there's a fag -to smoke," he said, and burst into song! Giv-c me a lucifer to light mo fag, And. smile, boys ; that's the stylo— Pack up yer troubles in yer old kit bag, And smile, boys, smile! Spudhole stood there indifferent to the eyes which might be watching him from

the opposite trenches, his head over the parapet, and sung his song. His grumbling mood was at an end, and now he was happy. Big-hearted, careless Spudhole was the British soldier personified—a brave and simple soul, who must not be denied his grumble or his song on Hie tortuous road that leads to victory.