Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-06-05
|MKkJ0URNEY,S END
XNRN &c She,1zT0 ana Vernon Bartlett
sv a

finish UP your whisky; I want to pack
my mug"
He hitched on his different belongings
until he looked like travelling peddler.
AS he leant over the table to light a
cigarette at the candle, he gave an
exclamation Of surprise.
well, I'm damnedl Still at It'll"
What is? Still at what?"
why that earwig It's been run
ming round and round that candle ever
since tea time. Must have done a
| mile"
Il shouldn't hang about here" If I
were an earwig."
Nor should II I'd go home. Still,
they're useful little beasts for racing.
Ever tried It? You each have an ear
wig and start 'em up in a line, dig EN-
in the ribs, and then steer the little
blighters with matches across the table.
I won 10 francs last night. Had
splendid little fellow. I'll tell you the
secret If you'll swear not to let it out?"
IT swear"
well, if you want to get the best
pace out of an earwig, dip 1t in whisky
makes 'em go like hell Now I'll be
off. Cheero! And don't forget the big
attack"
"Oh, Lord, no. I mustn't miss that"
Osborne agreed gravely. "1'll make a
hUGe VI III LII lily ulhIS. SLEcIU!
While Hardy went up the dugout
steps. singing a music hall song to
himself, Osborne settled down at the
table and began to study the map.
Stanhope ought to come down and get
some food, he reflected. The men must
have all moved in long ago. and he'd
have enough time in the trench without
pottering about there when he might
have been resting for once. Still, the
last thing Stanhope could stand was
the feeling that he was being nursed
and looked after; the only thing to do
was to wait until he turned up.
In the front line Stanhope had found
a quiet corner, where he stood staring
over the parapet. There was very little
firing, and most of the few bullets that
passed were flying high, 50 that they
would end their career harmleSsly, in
the mud, unless some aston1Shed trans
port man, long way behind the line,
happened to get into the way of one of
them. 1t was odd to think of the
millions of cartridges, each one so care
fully fashioned from ores which people
could spare so i'll, brought over so many
miles of railway, carried up with such
sweat and toll to the front line, to end
by burying themselves deep in the
earth. Some day peasants, blowing
their fields again, would come across
these shApeless, rusted scraps of metal,
and recognizing them as rife bullets,
would throw the useless things on the
scrap heap, and tramp on heavily up
the furrow, turning over soil enriched
by blood. Corn would grow where
trenches had been, would be ground
into flour, kneaded. into dough, and
children would eat bread that had
come from the. corpses of their fathers
Some fhncn fuyn line nf 1riH,
armies would disappear, and only stu
dents, porting over military manuals or
history books, would remember whether
such and such village had been in
allied or German hands. such and such
cathedral had been. destroyed by
allied or German shells and bombs.
There was hardly a sound to be
heard, and the occasional trench flares
shone on an empty, desolate strip of
No Mans Land, which was so churned
up that it looked like sea that had
grown muddier and muddier until it
had become too stiff to move. So quiet
that he could hear his wrist watch
ticking, and yet one knew that thou
sands OF guns were hidden close at
hand, all ready cleaned and oiled;
millions OF bullets lying in pouches:
thousands of soldiers-British, French.
Belgian, German-waiting, thinking,
wondering. And somewhere, miles be-
hind the lines, generals, studying maps
pinned on the walls of chateaux draw
ing rooms. moved little flags here and
there, and tried to outwit each other.
Communicates which minimized their
own losses, and exaggerated their own
successes, were tapped out over field
telephones or carried by dispatch riders
slithering across the country on their
motor bicycles, and in due course were
used to keep up the nations morale, to
I'LL the people with an ever-greater
readiness to be sacrificed, to prove that
the enemy were cowardly, or despairing,
or treacherous. How could any human
being bear all this burden of respon-
sibility? How could they manage to
avoid thinking, and yet, If they did
think, how could they remain sane?
A tinid voice interrupted the train
Of Stanhope's reflections.
Beg pardon. sir" it said.
Stanhope looked round at the sergeant
who stood below him in the trench.
Yes, what is it?" he asked.
ooh, nothing, sir. It's only thought
you was going to sleep up there with
your cad on the parapet. The men
does sometimes, and 1t amt very
'ealthy. So I took the liberty"
That's all right, sergeant. suppose
there are better pillows. Besides,
ought to get move on, anyhow.
Thanks"
And stanhope went along the trench
to fetch Trotter down to supper.
/Uo~kSo,,nI a.. rT1@..n @,.,.~@,,,J- CO.