Semi-weekly Windham County reformer. (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1897-1901, 1901-10-18
A Tragedy Of
The Trench
By LALLY BERNARD

Soaking rains and sodden ground; a
small barrier of upturned sod, looking as
if an anchor from q balloon had ssooped
up a few yards of soil and then scared
inward again. Behind this little hum
mock two men are lying fiat on their
faces. while a third figure is doubled up
and forms a support for one OF the Two
men-a steady support for the rlfie. ht
lies absolutely still-has been dead FOR
hours. with a bullet through his BRAIN.
Getting cramped beyond endurance, he
had, in spite of his companions remon-
strapces, insisted on rising and stretching
his limbs and as they had predicted Tell
back dead.
The two living men are filthy and IN
rogs. their boots, half torn from their
feet. look like those forlorn leather mNS-
ferries one finds in bitches and out of the
way places, always suggestive of some
tragedy or of thieving tramps who may
have discarded them for a less hopeless
Dair which they have managed to collect
on their rounds.
1t is hard to tell which of the men is
the elder: each one is sunburned ana
crimed with dirt; two weeks growth on
positively ferociuus; their eyes have
hungry CLEAN. 1t is days since they have
had a meal, subsSting on ration biscuits
more resembling dogs food than aught
else, but they have carefully nlbbled at
these to exc out sustenance.
For eight long hours these men have
lain in this shallow trenc oh, so shallow
that when bullets come whistling over
a.. nj fnnp
loose earth for protection. The aching
from cold and cramp is becoming well
nigh uncomfortable, and now and then one
or the other casts a glance toward the
crushed and twisted form beside them
with an expression of envy, as II 1t sus-
gested a welcome thought.
Curzon, the elder man of the two, man
ages, with a great effort, to get his pipe
alight.
Hold on a bit, Mortlake,' he says 10
his companion, land you shall have pull
presently"
"I'd give my soul for a cigarette,
groans Mortlake.
Pipes better, old man; rain can't put
it out so quick
well. while you are getting your
Whit, I'll take pot at the beggars, then
raising himself gingerly and sighting his
rifle as he speaks.
In another moment he tumbles back,
knocking the pipe and its precious con
tents out of Curzon's mouth. Good
God. Morty, you're not done for? sasps
Curzon. Guess So" feebly from Mort
lake. Got any stuff in your flask"
''Only a drop, cursed luck as it is" and
without seconds hesitation he whips
out the flask and holds it to the white
lips of his friend.
That's enough, that's enough; don't
pour all the precious stuff down my
throat. | may be dead in ten minutes,
and you'll need it more than | will"
mo nonsense, old man. try and wris-
gle around, so that | can see what the
damage is: such tiny hole it must be;
wish | could stop the blood. In your
side? Here? Bad-does it hurt"
Not much, feel sick and queer; think
I'm off. Hope not. Got a lot to live
for" A pause. How does a fellow feel
when he is going? Don't know-of
course you don't. Do look like it? Now,
Curzon, don't get up, you can't mend mat
tiers, and if you were hit and | was left
alone should 20 mad. Ugh.
What is it, Morty-pain"
"No, | forgot the poor devil under me-,
and his face is cold and wet; his boot is
Just in the small of my back"
Curzon moves the dead mans leg by
pushing sideways with his foot; Mort
lake grows deadly pale during the opera
ton. is there any blood coming now,
Curzon? Feel as if | were soaked in it,"
NO, old fellow; keep up your courage
for the matters sake"
A moment OF terrible silence while Cur
zon curses himself for a fool for having
mentioned the matters name. Mortlake,
with a curious note in his voice, says,
you were always wanting me to Keep
up something for her sake, weren't you
"Oh. yes, you're right there, but don't
get reminiscent and sentimental: keep up;
don't imagine it 5 a dangerous wound
well, it's Just as well these times TO
be ready to send in your checks; never
thought I'd get hit, a fel How never does;
always looks to see the next poor chap
go down instead. Remember the dance
Mt the Vernos' the night before we sailed:
Cad. how we chafed about this picnic
as we called it. Never thought of this
kind of thing. Call this war! Why. here
we are shooting out of the graves we
have started to dig for ourselves, and
shooting men we have never laid eyes
on-beastly impolite, | call it-with these
long range rifles. Wonder if | hit any
one before they bagged me!'
Curzon reaches carefully for the pipe,
which is almost covered with mud, and
tries TO relight the smoldering embers.
Got a light or a bit of paper about
you, Morty? If could get this blooming
thing TO go, Whit would do you good. A
letter-ah, thanks. The envelope rs
damp; can use the inside sheet? Scent.
Good Lord, how funny it seems!
"You can have it, Curzon, old fellow"
and Mortlake's face grows grayer as he
speaks, but / promised the little girl
who wrote it to keep it forever; keep a
bit, and if I'm knocked out send it TO
her Know her address, | expect Think
I'm fool, perhaps. Well, the truth is
I'm not comfortable in my mind about
that little episode; awfully unsophisti-
Gated little girl, and perhaps / did run
her bit hard (my old way. you Sly):
- L.