The spectator., 1919-03-14


 The English Lion was roaring, and his growls could be heard all along the western front. No doubt many a Ger man general was stirring uneaSily in his large concrete shell-proof dugout. kilos behind the German front line, as the ever-increasing laundering roar reached his ears.
 We had closeup view of his ma jesty, the king of beasts, and to us he was a sorry-looking specimen. Patches of hide were worn away, while in his tail were two big knots. If these knots had have been labeled 1t would have been easy to read "Neuve Chapelle" and "Gallipoli." The memory and pain of these two disasters no doubt increased the intensity of his thunder.
 The British bombardment of the German lines was on, bombardment which lasted over eight days and nights. It was the forerunner of the Big Push, or Battle of the Somme."
 Atwen and I were sitting In dug out of the support trench. Atwell was a great, big, lovable fellow, and was my mate. We both had been detailed to the divisional intelligence depart ment, and were engaged upon "spy work"
 Atwell, although of a naturally cheery disposition, occasionally re- lapsed into fits of despondency.
 In the light from a stump of a can dle l was making out my previous days report to turn into brigade headquarters. Occasionally the en- trance to the dugout would light up with a red flare as shell burst in the near vicinity. Atwell was sitting on his pack, with his back leaning against the wet and muddy wall of the dugout. The rays from the candle lighted up his face.
 Finishing my report, I got out a flag" lighted 1t, and with an uneasy feeling listened to the roar of the hell outside. A longdrawn sigh caused me to look in Atwell's direction Never il my life have I seen such a dejected and woe-begone countenance This, in a way, angered me, because I. myself, right then, had feeling of impending disaster. a sort of unknown dread, perhaps intermingled with a far-away longing for the fields and flowers at home. I wanted to be cheered, and Atwell's face looked like . mOrgue.
 Forcing a smile slapped Atwell on the knee and said:
 Come out O your trance. We've both got a good chance for Blighty with this bombardment on."
 Atwell looked in my direction, and in a tone of voice which from him I had never heard before, answered.:
 "Yank, I've been out since "A. I've buried many a mate and I've seen many a lucky bloke on a stretcher bound for Blighty, and never gave it a thought, but right now feel as if my stay in the trenches will be short. I've had something on my mind since September, 1914, and it's been worry ing me pink. I'm goin' to tell you the story, and I'll give you my oath that you're the first one that's ever heard 1t from my lips; but I've got to have your promise that you'll not judge me too harshly. I've just got to get 1t out O my system"
 Just then a signing moan could be heard overhead. It was one of our mine -point-two" shells aimed in the nR Nn v,ey<t lively turned our eyes toward the en- trance of the dugOut and waited for the burst. Nothing happened.
 Another bloomin' dud," calculated Atwell. "A few more hundred pounds gone to seed" and then again the gloomy look spread over his counte- nance. I was getting nervous and un- easy. Trying to hide my fear. said ::
 'For tn love O Mike, Atwell, crack a smile. Give us that story of yours, or else I'll go playhouse. You had bet ter get it off or your chest, because I'm thinking that Fritz will soon be replying to our strafing, and If an eight-inch shell ever hits this dugout they'll need no wooden crosses for us, because our names will appear un- der the caption Missing"
 With another sigh escaping from his lips, which sent a cold shiver up and down my spinal column, he lighted flag and started in. This is what he told me:
 ''It was back in September, 1914. You know I came out with the first hundred thousand, the time when all the fighting was done in the open. The Germans were smashing every thing before them In their drive on
 ris. Our regiment was one of the
 2 opposed to Won Kluck. It was a
 of hold them for a few hours and
 m retreat-always retreat. We T int even have time to bury our ad. The grub was rotten, and we we just about fagged out, dead tired,
 no prospect of relief or rest in
 of us.
 t was customary for small patrols