Welsh Journals

stroke of eight the rapid fire of our eighteen pounders began in staccato bursts, and the louder throats of the heavies punctuated the din. There they go," I said, and scuttled off the lad to his retreat. His eyes were dancing. That's the way," he said as he saw the long tongues of flame darting into the darkness. I turned wearily up towards "The Circus," knowing too well that nothing much would happen but bombardment, and that the result would be another two or three of the old band sent to Blighty or to that further Blighty-not across the English Channel. As I passed the trench mortars post they were beginning to add their quota to the inferno. I heard the first whine of the Bosche answer. He was right on the parapet of my new bay, and I swore as a man would who saw a hooligan walking across his flower bed. Then the trench mortars spoke, and Fritz began to search about with his rum jars. I stumbled against the Sergeant-Major. He ducked as a whizz-bang sang by. Well, Sergt.-Major, we are in for it," I said. Yes, sir, just along to six post." A voice three feet away sounded "Is that you, Major?" "Yes, my lad. Corpl. Crow- bar knocked out Very well, slip down for two stretcher bearers." Another of the old lads, sir," said the Sergt. Major to me. You remember his song when we had the concert in the Pavilion at Rhyl." Just then a breathless Fusilier spoke out of the darkness. Capt. A there ? Yes-who wants him ? Lieut. Batchelor wants to know, sir, if he shall bring up the counter-attack now ? I heard the Sergt .-Major gurgle. Please tell Lieut. Batchelor," I said, not yet, I will send word." Bless the lad, every good Saxon within fifty miles was puffing his fat pipe in his bottom-most dug-out. Meantime the Bosche was quite evidently irritated. He was dumping his explosives on to my three hundred yards all too quickly. I made way for two or three stretchers and anxiously looked at the faint glow of my watch. But our guns were merciless. So many rounds were to be handed over to German- France, and very methodically the goods were being delivered. A fuse came singing down between the Sergt.-Major and me, and he kicked it mechanically out of the sandbag in which it lodged. We can get along now, sir," he said. Slowly and with many ducks we squelched our way. All THE WELSH OUTLOOK for 1917.— Send in your Subscription now 4/- post free per annum; 2/6 post free for 6 months. right, boys?" "All right sir, a bit warm." I moved on and marvelled that such steadiness came instantly at need out of our quiet Wales. Well, Coyne," I said to a darker splash in the darkness, "gun ready? He was a Lewis gunner. "Yes sir, everything ready." I knew him years ago in Swansea, so asked Folks at home well, Coyne ? Yes, sir," he said, They are bathing at Mumbles," and he laughed quietly as I went on. Capt. A. wanted was passed along. Yes, coming." Lieut. Batchelor wants to know if he can put in the counter-attack Again I had to send some soothing words to Sir Galahad. There was only one spot where my men would be likely to be shaken it was Bombing Post 6, and thither I dragged my sodden thigh boots. In a three-foot deep niche stretching outwards ten yards from dark to dawn, seven men squatted with thigh and calf muscles tortured with cramp. They were always glad to see me. As I came within feeling distance a rum jar tore out of nowhere, and when the sharp tearing, unbearable burst had cleared, I found a shaken three looking at four who quietly groaned. Brave lads, so little a cry for so grievous a hurt. It was a nasty place I disliked it. No stretcher- bearers, no help, only the Sergt.-Major and three shaken men. It was a four-hour job to evacuate these four suffering men. Suddenly out of that pain- stricken dark appeared several men and a cheerful girlish voice. The counter-attack, sir What the Sergt.-Major said I dare not repeat. What I thought in that amazed moment I have now forgotten, but I soon realised that he had come across the open and most of his old hands had dived for cover en route. So making of the counter-attack a stretcher-party. to the glowing delight of seventeen year old, we evacuated that bloody slit in three quart ers of an hour. Prompt to nine o'clock the last eighteen pounder sent over its final round. The strafe was over. Fritz went to sleep, and I sent my weary men down to their rest. The Cherub had some tales to tell his captain in the old dug out. Yet never was the counter attack received but with sympathy and attention. Perhaps seventeen year old is now a blase member of the J.H.Q. of those tired Fusiliers. Russell Jones.