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 Cornell University Library 
 PR6025.A1775D7 1918 
 
 The dough boys, 
 
 3 1924 013 657 394 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013657394 
 
THE 
 DOUGH BOYS 
 
 BY 
 PATRICK 
 
 MacGILL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BROWN BRETHREN," "THE RED HORIZON," 
 "THE GREAT PUSH," "THE RAT-PIT," ETC. 
 
 NEW ^%EJr YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
Copyright, iqi8, 
 By George H. Doran Company 
 
 Printed in the United States of A merica 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER p AGE 
 
 I. The Dog-Robber g 
 
 II. Mud-Wallow \ . . . 17 
 
 III. The Post-Communion 33 
 
 IV. Bosses 55 
 
 V. Bunkies 64 
 
 VI. The Detail 75 
 
 VLL Babette 85 
 
 VIII. The Journey 91 
 
 DC. The Engineers 105 
 
 X. Gustave 113 
 
 XI. Another Man's Duds 123 
 
 XII. The Americans at Cambrai 140 
 
 XIII. Canned Willie 162 
 
 XIV. Goblin Town 171 
 
 XV. The Trenches 189 
 
 XVI. In Church 207 
 
 XVII. The Routine of War 213 
 
 XVIII. The Coming of Spring 230 
 
 XXX. The Blanket 241 
 
 XX. The Lost Colonel 257 
 
 XXI. Back From the Grave 275 
 
 XXII. Back to Billets 286 
 
 XXIII. The War Wad? 296 
 
 s 
 
TOE DOUGH BOYS 
 
THE 
 DOUGH BOYS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE DOG-ROBBER 
 
 YOU low-down, dirty — you! You — you! 
 You !" 
 
 The young soldier was white with an- 
 ger. His lips twitched and his eyes flashed fire. 
 The two other men, leaning against the wall of 
 the kitchen, had been giving tongue in reply to 
 the youngster previously, but now they were si- 
 lent as if waiting for the young man's rage to 
 wear itself out. And the affair rose from a 
 very simple matter, the spilling of a plate of soup 
 on the floor by the youngster and the eldest man 
 in the kitchen threatening to make the boy lick up 
 the soup from the ground. The boy replied to 
 the good-humoured jest with an oath and it 
 amused the elder man, the head-cook at the bat- 
 talion headquarters. 
 
 9 
 
io The DougK Boys 
 
 "You jest lick it up, sonny," he replied. "By 
 the cut of your mouth it strikes me that you are 
 the very man for the job." 
 
 "I'll lick you," said the youngster. "Thinking 
 you're God Almighty because you're a profes- 
 sional dog-robber." * 
 
 "If you're not careful, sonny, I'll get you by 
 the neck and make you lick it up," said the head- 
 cook. "You have as much impudence in you as 
 a man twice your age." 
 
 "A damned insolent puppy!" said the other 
 cook, who was in the kitchen. He was a raw- 
 boned man, with a sun-freckled face and eyes 
 which squinted slightly. The youngster with the 
 short temper was a soldier who had recently 
 joined the kitchen staff, and was continually at 
 loggerheads with his new mates. 
 
 Now he looked at the sun-freckled man. 
 
 "You!" he roared. "You, you squint-eyes! 
 You!" 
 
 The man with the squint reached forward to 
 grab the young fellow, but just as he was on the 
 point of touching him he drew back to the wall 
 and stood there as if in the position of attention. 
 The other man became suddenly quiet and de- 
 
 * In the United States Army "dog-robber" is the nick- 
 name given to cooks and bat-men and it is a name very 
 much resented by those to whom it is applied. 
 
The Dog-Robber n 
 
 voted his attention as it seemed to the calendar 
 which hung on the opposite wall. The youngster, 
 believing that he had frightened the two men, 
 burst into a wild orgy of language. The Record- 
 ing Angel was having a busy time at that mo- 
 ment. Suddenly the young fellow became 
 alarmed at the silence of his two mates. Why 
 were they not speaking? The youngster stopped 
 shouting and looked round. Then his eyes 
 started as if they were going to jump from their, 
 sockets, and his jaw dropped. 
 
 The Colonel of the battalion was standing be- 
 hind him. 
 
 The Colonel was a man well past middle age 
 with a square jaw and his hair going a little white 
 at the temples. Quick in an emergency and full 
 of vitality and grim humour, he was much loved 
 by his soldiers. He had seen a great deal of 
 fighting in his time on the Mexican borders and 
 in various other theatres of war where the Amer- 
 ican troops were sent to restore order and do a 
 little fighting if the luck fell their way. The 
 Colonel was nicknamed "Toughey," a nickname 
 which he esteemed very much. 
 
 For a moment he fixed his eyes on the young- 
 ster who had been using the furious language in 
 the kitchen, then he turned to the other two men. 
 
 "I've often seen the mouths of men who used 
 
12 The Dough Boys 
 
 such language washed out with brown soap. 
 Haven't you, Donovan ?" he asked the elder man. 
 
 "Yes, sir," Donovan replied, standing tenta- 
 tively with the toe of one boot just touching the 
 ground. 
 
 "And you've got some brown soap here, Dono- 
 van ?" enquired the Colonel in a most benign voice. 
 Donovan dived into a cupboard under the win- 
 dow and brought out a cake of brown soap. 
 
 "Oh! we'll not need it this time, Donovan," 
 said the Colonel, and turned to the youngster. 
 
 "I've been listening to you, Burke," he said 
 softly. "Your language was a bit extraordinary, 
 and if I may venture to express an opinion on it, 
 a bit foul. Your mouth will feel dirty now, so 
 I have no doubt, as you have regained your tem- 
 per, you will like to rinse it a little. It will do 
 you all the good in the world. A child like you 
 using such language! You should be ashamed 
 of yourself. . . ." 
 
 The Colonel spoke in the same calm cool way 
 during the whole of his impromptu lecture. 
 Donovan, who had been through many campaigns 
 with the officer, recollected, as he listened, that 
 in the toughest hours of a fight the Colonel had 
 always spoken in this same manner. . . . Now 
 that the lecture was at an end the officer turned 
 on his heel and went out. Donovan listened to 
 
The Dog-Robber 13 
 
 the sound of the retreating footsteps and when 
 they died away he turned to Burke. 
 
 "If the Colonel didn't wash your mouth out, 
 you cracker jack, I will !" he cried, and with these 
 words he gripped Burke by the wrist, twisted the 
 hand outwards, tipped the young man's heel with 
 his boot and the youngster fell to the floor. 
 
 Then he dropped himself by Burke, shoved his 
 leg over the young man's body, and with a quick 
 movement levered the youngster's arm across his 
 knee. By exerting a little pressure on the wrist 
 of the pinioned arm, Donovan had Burke at his 
 mercy. 
 
 "You get the soap, now, Lacy," said Donovan 
 to the sun-freckled man. "And a little pail of 
 water." 
 
 This was procured and on Donovan's direc- 
 tions the mouth of Burke was swabbed. Then 
 he was allowed to get to his feet. 
 
 "The same thing will be done to you every time 
 I hear you use such language here, Burke," said 
 Donovan, fixing a pair of stern eyes on the de- 
 linquent. "Every time I hear you speak like 
 that again, remember. If the Colonel doesn't 
 take you in hand, I will ! You should be ashamed 
 of yourself." 
 
 Burke was silent for a moment, but he kept 
 spitting the particles of soap that had fixed them- 
 
14 The Dough Boys 
 
 selves between his teeth to the floor. In the end, 
 however, he turned to the head-cook. 
 
 "We're going up to the line soon, I hope," he 
 said, with a slow voice as if endeavouring to 
 stifle his tears. "And when we're there," he con- 
 tinued, "I know who the first bullet I fire is for. 
 It's for you, Donovan, and the second's for 
 Toughey. He's not as clever as he thinks. Just 
 because he's an officer he thinks that he can do 
 whatever he likes. But he'll be sorry for this 
 day's work, before he's finished with me." 
 
 "They all say that," said Donovan. "All the 
 youngsters when they first join the Army. 
 They're going to shoot all the officers the first 
 thing when they get into battle. But they learn 
 better after a while. You just help us with the 
 washing of the dishes and you'll be all right in a 
 little." 
 
 "Damn the dishes," said Burke, and again he 
 launched into a vigorous flood of English, tense, 
 terse and denunciative. "Wash the dishes! I 
 should think so! That's not what I came out 
 here for! I came out to fight and not to wash 
 up the plates that other men eat off. It's not my 
 trade, Donovan, not my trade." 
 
 As he spoke he went outside and wandered 
 down the street. Donovan went to the door and 
 looked after him. 
 
The Dog-Robber 15 
 
 "God ! there's a lot of the devil in that cracker- 
 jack," he said, turning to Lacy. "He is dying to 
 hike to the trenches and get a blow at Hiney. 
 And he's not a bad fellow at heart. What's his 
 age, do you think?" he enquired. 
 
 "Nineteen," Lacy hazarded. "He looks quite 
 a youngster." 
 
 "He's not nineteen," said Donovan. "Far from 
 it. He told me the other night that he was only 
 seventeen. Gave the wrong age when he ap- 
 plied for admission into the Army. But despite 
 that he'll make a splendid fighter." 
 
 "Where the devil has he hiked to now ?" asked 
 Lacy. 
 
 "I don't know where," said Donovan. "The 
 silly crackerjack! He's always up to some God- 
 derned tricks." 
 
 As he spoke he took a lump of American plug 
 from his pocket, put it in his mouth and bit a 
 piece off the end. 
 
 "But how did the fellow manage to get taken 
 on here?" Lacy enquired. "He came a fortnight 
 ago, and he seems to have been picked up by 
 Toughey. Why he picked him up is more than 
 I'm fit to chew. I heard Casey, the Top-Sergeant, 
 speaking about the business the other day. Says 
 that Toughey spoke to him one evening. 'Have 
 you a young fellow named Burke in your com- 
 
16 The Dough Boys 
 
 pany?' he asked him. 'Yes, I know the kid,' said 
 the Top-Sergeant. 'What kind of kid is he?' 
 Toughey asked. 'Keen as mustard,' Casey said. 
 'Plenty of pep in him, and always gettin' into 
 scrapes.' 'Well, that's the kind of man we want,' 
 said Toughey. 'And I'm on the look-out for a 
 batman. Do you think that Burke'll suit the 
 job?' 'He might think it a bit slow, sir,' said 
 Casey. And that was how far the matter went 
 at that moment, but the next day Burke was told 
 to report at Headquarters, and here he has been 
 ever since." 
 
 Donovan was silent for a moment while a bulge 
 kept appearing first on one cheek, then on the 
 other. The plug of tobaco was making a canter 
 round the man's mouth. 
 
 "Don't know why the cracker jack is here, I'm 
 sure," said Donovan at last, as he went up to the 
 fire and spat into the flames. "And he's given 
 no end of trouble since he came here. If he was 
 another man, Toughey would have shoved him 
 into the jug long ago. It wouldn't have been 
 his mouth rinsed out with brown soap then. It 
 would be something tougher to chew. But any- 
 way he's off now and we've the dishes to wash." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MUD-WALLOW 
 
 RAGE in his heart and anger in his eyes, 
 Burke went along the street of the French 
 village. Where he was bound for he did 
 not know and he did not care. All that he 
 wanted at the present moment was to get out of 
 sight of the hated battalion Headquarters. 
 Washing his mouth out with brown soap! And 
 he had come out to France, across seas infested 
 with submarines and mines, to fight the Germans ! 
 And what fighting had he seen? None, and he 
 had been in the country for close upon five months 
 and he had never seen a German as yet. On 
 calm nights he had heard the sounds of guns from 
 a distance, and on occasions he had seen the 
 French soldiers leave the village on their way 
 to the trenches. But his battalion had never gone 
 to the trenches and in fact they had never seen 
 the line of battle. As far as he could see they 
 would never get into the fighting zone. All they 
 did here was to clean the village streets, pace 
 backwards and forwards on eternal parades and 
 
 17 
 
1 8 The Dough Boys 
 
 march out on eternal roads, out from the village 
 at morning and back again at night. He did 
 not like doing such tame jobs as these. And the 
 worst of it was that he was debarred from even 
 the ordinary routine of the soldier's day. He 
 was, at the order of the Colonel, transformed 
 into an ordinary dog-robber, a menial bat-man. 
 
 "I wish I was out of the whole damned busi- 
 ness," he muttered as he walked along. "Com- 
 ing out here to clean officers' boots and no chance 
 of fighting. Wish I had stayed at home." 
 
 He walked along, deep in his own thoughts, 
 and seeing nothing of the scenes around him. But 
 the village was a very picturesque one, ancient 
 and quaint, full of the mysteries of ages that were 
 no more. On each side of the crooked street along 
 which he walked, old bent houses with vines trail- 
 ing on their walls looked out on the pavements, 
 on which massive piles of byre and stable ma- 
 nure were heaped in square compact lumps. Chil- 
 dren could be seen looking out from the narrow 
 windows taking stock of those who were passing 
 by on the street outside. Old dames, wrinkled 
 and white-haired, who looked as if they had been 
 in existence long before the shaping of the village, 
 came out into the street to drive back erring goats 
 to their pasture, or chase hens away from the 
 doorsteps. To them the every-day affairs of 
 
Mud-Wallow 19 
 
 their village were of greater consequence than the 
 world war which was raging only a few miles 
 away. 
 
 All manner of people were here, the young and 
 the old, the foreign and the native, the suckling 
 child, the wrinkled crone, the smart Yankee sol- 
 dier, brisk and alert in his movements, and the 
 soldier of France, weary and spent after a long 
 march back from the locality in which the guns 
 of war were eternally raging. 
 
 The village was one of vivid contrasts. A 
 middle-agedlenergetic woman with a wicker creel 
 on her shoulders carried the provisions for her 
 household home from the market, toiling valiantly 
 behind the motor waggons which were bringing 
 the rations to the American soldiers in their 
 camps on the outskirts of the village. An old 
 man dressed in a sheepskin coat with a fur col- 
 lar, washed his face at a pump, splashing the 
 water over his ears, and his beard, and down the 
 front of his coat. An American military police- 
 man, a big man with a pitcher face, narrow at 
 brow and heavy at chin, who carried a baton in 
 his hand and a revolver in his belt, looked on 
 the old man at the pump and smiled condescend- 
 ingly as he watched him. The two were worlds 
 apart, but for all that there was already a min- 
 gling of tone and colour becoming noticeable in 
 
20 The Dough Boys 
 
 the place. The people of one Republic were ac- 
 commodating themselves to the ways and man- 
 ners of the other. The little French gamin with 
 the Paris editions of American papers under his 
 arms told the price of these in cents and had al- 
 ready learned to speak with a Yankee twang. 
 The French girls twitted the American soldiers 
 who passed them on the street, and the soldiers 
 made answer, the former speaking in English, 
 the latter in French. 
 
 "Come along right here," some girls said with 
 a laugh, as they passed Burke. They were call- 
 ing to the military policeman. 
 
 "Non, Maselles," was the man's reply. "Vous 
 non bong!" and with such badinage the pillars 
 of the Entente were cemented and made strong. 
 
 But Burke had no eye for matters like these. 
 He did not see the girls passing, the children peer- 
 ing out from the windows, the French soldiers 
 coming back from the trenches. All that he 
 knew was that he had been grossly treated by 
 the Colonel and the taste of brown soap was still 
 in his mouth. He looked angrily at a bullock, 
 clay to the belly, and yoked to a cumbrous 
 waggon which it drew placidly along the street. 
 
 "A darned place this to get shoved into," he 
 grumbled. "It's the dirtiest place I've ever 
 
Mud-Wallow 21 
 
 struck in all my life. No wonder it's called Mud- 
 wallow !" 
 
 He came to the corner of a street and into an 
 open square. There was a pond in the centre 
 and round this a number of women with their 
 sleeves thrust up to their shoulders were wash- 
 ing linen. The corners of the pond were coated 
 with ice and on this ice all manner of odds and 
 ends were lying, some of them frozen in. Lying 
 side by side were empty corned beef tins that 
 once were filled in Chicago, worn sabots which 
 once held the feet of a village girl, the wick of 
 an oil-lamp, an electric bulb, a broken crucifix 
 and a bayonet scabbard, relics thrown away by 
 the people of two republics, people far apart in 
 days of peace and now bound together in the 
 mighty hours of war. 
 
 Skirting the streets corners on two wheels half 
 a dozen Flivvers swung into the square and swept 
 out, their wheels grazing the waggon drawn by 
 the bullock. The women at the wash-board 
 looked up for a moment and then bent to their 
 work again. They had accommodated them- 
 selves to the changed life of their one time quiet 
 little village, and now were hurried at the wash- 
 ing, for the linen belonged to the officers of the 
 American Army. Trade was good in Mud-wal- 
 low and those who can work have no need to go 
 
22 The Dough Boys 
 
 short of money. The Americans had come and 
 dollars were plentiful. 
 
 Burke made his way aimlessly through the 
 Square and out into the quarter of the village 
 where the houses were growing sparse and where 
 the fields could be seen. He crossed a bridge and 
 made his way towards a cottage by which the 
 American cooks were busily engaged preparing 
 the food for the men's suppers. A man stood 
 by the field cooker which was placed near the 
 cottage, filling the boiler with water. He was 
 all alone and very much interested in his work. 
 Half a dozen scraggy dogs were sitting on their 
 haunches near him, watching him at his labour. 
 Suddenly he picked up a bone, held it out to them 
 and they barked in anticipation of the dainty mor- 
 sel. He flung it to them and they all rushed 
 trying to grip it, snarling and showing their teeth. 
 For a moment there was a mad scramble accom- 
 panied by yelping and squealing, but this sub- 
 sided when one of the dogs, a lucky mongrel, 
 seized the bone and rushed off with it. The oth- 
 ers followed him for a space and then returned 
 to the cooker. All day long they sat there, watch- 
 ing and waiting and struggling when a bone was 
 thrown to them. 
 
 Burke sat on the bridge and watched the scene 
 near him. A dark-eyed, pretty girl, with a little 
 
Mud-Wallow 23 
 
 American flag pinned to her blouse, came out 
 from the cottage, accompanied by an American 
 soldier, who was talking to her in whispers. The 
 man at the cooker saw the two and cleared his 
 throat. 
 
 "Cassidy," he shouted. "Come down right 
 here. You're wanted." 
 
 The man with the girl turned and looked at the 
 cook, then whispered something to the girl. 
 
 "I wouldn't believe a word of it, Mademoiselle," 
 said the cook. "Cassidy never tells the truth." 
 
 "They're all fools," said Burke to himself. 
 "Our men are just as big fools as the French and 
 that's saying something." 
 
 As he spoke he spat another particle of soap 
 on the street and left the bridge and made his 
 way out from the village. What he meant to do 
 was impossible to say. But he vowed that he 
 would not go back to Headquarters again that 
 day. If they wanted him they could follow him 
 and take him back. What did he care? Wash- 
 ing his mouth with brown soap! Pfu! He 
 would prefer being placed against a wall and 
 shot rather than return to the kitchen again. He 
 wasn't a fool! He would show them. By 
 "them" he meant the whole American Expedi- 
 tionary Force in general and the Colonel of his 
 battalion in particular. 
 
24 The Dough Boys 
 
 "What the hell are you up to!" 
 
 It was his first exclamation when he got up. 
 A football had hit him on the face and knocked 
 him down. He got to his feet again and looked 
 at the man who had kicked the ball, an American 
 soldier about Burke's own height and age. 
 
 "Blimey ! I didn't see you," said the man, and 
 burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter even 
 as he spoke. 
 
 "And grinning like a jay!" said Burke, ad- 
 vancing towards the footballer with his hands 
 raised to strikeihim. 
 
 "I'm damned sorry," said the man, making an 
 effort to look apologetic. "But your bloomin' 
 phiz is such a sight. All mucked over." 
 
 "Your face will be just as ugly looking when 
 I'm done with you !" Burke roared, and launched 
 out with his fist at the soldier's face. The man 
 looked at him with surprise and parried the blow 
 with a mild upward move of his right arm. 
 
 "Don't be such a bloomin' fool," he said. 
 "Wot game are yer up ter?" 
 
 "It's not a game," vociferated Burke, striking 
 out again with all the force of his body. "You'll 
 find it's not a game before you're done with me." 
 
 The stranger parried the second blow, which 
 .wasted itself in mid-air and he suddenly seemed 
 to be possessed of a mild interest in the affair. 
 
Mud-Wallow 25 
 
 Taking up an attitude of defence he waited for 
 the next rush of Burke. Like a young fire-eater 
 the youth advanced, swung with his left for the 
 stranger's face. The blow was a sudden one and 
 the footballer had to step back a bit to dodge it. 
 Burke had counted on this backward move, and 
 stepped forward on his right foot, jerked his right 
 fist and caught his opponent a heavy crack on the 
 ear, knocking him down. 
 
 "That'll teach you to kick a football in my 
 face," he said, as he waited, standing in an ex- 
 pectant attitude, for the prostrate man to get up. 
 
 The footballer scrambled to his feet again, and 
 in the look of his eyes there was the slightest hint 
 of viciousness. He was going to do things now. 
 He was going to fight and fight hard, if the for- 
 ward thrust of his jaw and his steady purchase 
 of the ground with both feet well set and bal- 
 anced, were tokens of the man's intention. But 
 even the set expression on his face did not deter 
 Burke from making another headlong rush which 
 earned him one sharp blow on his cheek and an- 
 other on the point of his chin. He drew back, 
 feeling that all his teeth had been loosened in 
 his mouth. But he was not afraid of his man. 
 He hated him. He shook his head as if trying 
 to rid himself of the effect of the blow and stead- 
 ied himself before his opponent. He breathed 
 
26 The Dough Boys 
 
 deeply and went close to his man, more wary now 
 than he had been before. The footballer was 
 handy with the mitts and so was he. They were 
 evenly matched and each knew that the man who 
 kept cool would have the best chance of winning. 
 
 Both seemed to be of the same opinion and re- 
 spected one another's worth in the fistic art. They 
 put up their hands and watched for an opening. 
 Neither rushed nor struck a blow. They sim- 
 ply felt round one another, their arms bent, one 
 fist covering the stomach and the other the face, 
 and the fists almost touching. For fully two min- 
 utes they kept walking round one another, feint- 
 ing and sparring but not getting a blow home. 
 
 Then it happened suddenly. Burke felt him- 
 self seized from behind as it seemed, and lifted 
 bodily into the air. The footballer found himself 
 in the same plight. A man, a big red-haired 
 American soldier, had crept upon them unob- 
 served and now he held the two men, one in each 
 arm, just as two little children might be held in 
 the arms of a nurse. 
 
 "Blimey, wot game are yer playin'?" enquired 
 the footballer, struggling to free himself from 
 the grip of the stranger. 
 
 "What do you want?" shouted Burke, the fight- 
 ing devil still strong in him, as he tried to hit the 
 strange man. 
 
Mud-Wallow 27 
 
 But neither of the young fellows could free 
 themselves. The newcomer had an iron grip, 
 and in it the two fighters were impotent. All 
 that they could do was to kick and protest, and 
 the language of their protestations was violent 
 and vigorous. 
 
 The red-haired man looked at one, then at the 
 other and a good-humoured smile showed itself 
 on his face. He was vastly amused. 
 
 "'It's not in me get to intherf ere," he said. "Not 
 when there's a bit iv a row on ; that's no concern 
 iv mine. But when I see two young laddybucks 
 like yerselves knockin' one another's faces off, I 
 cannot stand idly by and let ye go on with it. 
 Now what is yer wee bit iv a quarrel about at all, 
 at all?" 
 
 As he spoke he lifted the two men from the 
 ground holding one under each arm. This feat 
 did not seem to exert the man in the least. 
 
 "It's wrong to get fightin' like this," he con- 
 tinued, speaking in a* slow, easy voice. "Two iv 
 yees at it like cats and yees so young. I suppose 
 yees will be having this ruction about a girl and 
 that's not to be wondered at if it is so. A girl's 
 always worth havin' a fight about and many's 
 the one I, meself, had to fight for. Wait for a 
 minute and I'll tell yees about a girl that I had a 
 
28 The Dough Boys 
 
 notion iv long ago. It's a story that will take 
 some time to tell. . . ." 
 
 As he spoke he hunched up the two men with 
 no apparent effort so that he got each of them 
 into the crook of his arm. From there they hung 
 over his elbows like clothes on a washing line. 
 
 "Blimey ! let us get off this bloomin fix," said 
 the footballer. "You're holdin' us up on your 
 arms just like two blankets." 
 
 Burke did not speak. He was trying to get 
 hold of the strong man's arm with his teeth. 
 
 "All right, me boyos, if yees want me to let you 
 go I'll not say a word agin it," said the strong 
 man. "But no fightin' when I let yees get out 
 of me grip. Will yees promise me that?" 
 
 "Righto, old sport!" said the footballer. "I'll 
 promise." 
 
 An arm relaxed its pressure and the footballer 
 was free. Burke was still trying to fight against 
 his imprisonment. 
 
 "And you, me boyo," asked the newcomer, ad- 
 dressing him. "Will ye be a good boy if I let 
 ye go?" 
 
 "Well, let me go and I'll tell you." 
 
 "Ye've to give me yer word afore I free ye," 
 said the red-haired man, tightening his grip on 
 Burke, just to show the boy how much he was 
 in the bigger man's power. 
 
Mud-Wallow 29 
 
 "I'll promise," he said, and the grip loosened. 
 
 "When you let me out of your clutches per- 
 haps," he added. 
 
 The red-haired man's grip tightened again. 
 
 "Let me get down and I'll promise that I won't 
 kick up another row," said the boy, feeling that 
 any further struggle was useless. The red- 
 haired man released him and Burke was free. 
 
 "It was all my fault," said the footballer. "I 
 was kickin' the ball, a football, along the road, 
 and I gave it one kick and it 'it this bloke right on 
 the moosh and knocked him down. I was damned 
 sorry about it, but his phiz was so black with the 
 dirt o' the road that I couldn't 'elp larfin' at it. 
 Then 'e rushed at me and landed me one on the 
 ear-'ole. Then the two o' us went at it 'ammer 
 and tongs. It was my fault and I'm sorry. I 
 apologize. Shake, pal." 
 
 He held out his hand to Burke and the young- 
 ster looked at it for a moment, then clasped it. 
 
 "I have such a short temper," he said. "If 
 I had given the matter a thought I wouldn't be 
 so quick with my mitts." 
 
 The red-haired man looked on the youngsters 
 with an air of approval. "Nothin' like makin' 
 it up," he said. "Fightin's not much iv a pastime 
 when all's said and done, 'specially when the 
 
30 The Dough Boys 
 
 fightin's not agin them that we've come across 
 to get at." 
 
 As he spoke he felt in the pocket of his tunic, 
 drew out a short black clay pipe and placed it 
 between his teeth. Then he found a match, drew 
 it along the leg of his trousers, lit the pipe and 
 puffed half a dozen mouth fuls of smoke into the 
 air. 
 
 "There's great consolation in a dudheen," 
 he said, after a short silence. "A smoke is great 
 at warmin' the cockles iv one's heart. Almost 
 as good it is as a dhrop iv potheen from the hills 
 iv Mayo." 
 
 "Irish?" asked the footballer, who guessed the 
 nationality of the red-haired man from his 
 brogue, which was thick enough to be cut with a 
 knife. 
 
 "Irish, iv coorse," he replied. "From the old 
 dart, and years away from there. Six years, 
 come next Candlemas, since I took the boat to 
 Amerikay. And me name's Sullivan, the same 
 name as the man who is one iv the greatest fight- 
 ers in history — the great J. L. And ye, yerself," 
 Sullivan looked at the footballer, "has not the 
 tongue iv a Yankee. Where d'ye hail from?" 
 
 "London," replied the footballer. "Born in ole 
 Smoke, I was." 
 
 "And is that so?" asked the Irishman with a 
 
Mud- Wallow 31 
 
 look of mild surprise in his eyes. "I thought that 
 when Irishmen and Irish-Americans were bulked 
 up into an Army there wouldn't be much room 
 for any one else." 
 
 "I saw an openin' and I stole in when the Top- 
 Sergeant wasn't lookin','' said the Londoner with 
 a grin. "I 'opped into line as Private Stiff and 
 'ere I am." 
 
 "Stiff!" Sullivan exclaimed. "And will that 
 be yer rale name?" 
 
 "That's my name," said the Cockney, speak- 
 ing as if he felt proud of being descended from 
 ancestors who gloried in the name of Stiff from 
 the earliest times. "Ye've nuffink to say against 
 the name, 'ave yer?" 
 
 "Nothin'," said the Irishman. "It's one iv 
 them things that's a man's be birth and must be 
 borne, just like red hair. As yees see yer selves 
 I've got a head as red as a blazin' faggot, which 
 means that there's fire and fight in me blood. It 
 has its advantages at times for when a man calls 
 me Ginger in a mockin' way it give me an oppor- 
 tunity iv havin' a good set-to with him. And Glory 
 be ! I love a bit iv a fight at times. But red hair 
 has its disadvantages as well. When a girl calls 
 ye old Ginger ye feel like takin' a back seat and 
 sayin' nothin'. And yer name, what would it 
 be ?" he enquired, turning to the other youngster 
 
32 The Dough Boys 
 
 who now seemed to have recovered his good hu- 
 mour and was listening to the Irishman speak- 
 ing, amused at his utterances. 
 
 "My name's Burke," he replied. 
 
 "An Irish name," said Sullivan. "There are 
 people in me own townland away in Mayo and 
 their name is Burke. Divils for fightin' they are 
 too, every man iv them." 
 
 "I was born in the States, in New York City," 
 said Burke. 
 
 "Descended from an Irish family, iv coorse," 
 said Sullivan with the air of a man who was an 
 authority on the subject. 
 
 "Our people have lived there for ages," said 
 Burke. "Back as far as it can be traced." 
 
 "But the first Burke must have come from 
 somewhere that wasn't America," said Sullivan. 
 "And I won't be far astray in sayin that the 
 Burkes iv me own townland, iv Kingarrow, are 
 iv the same stock as yerself is. Glory! I can 
 trace a likeness to them in yer face." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 TH^ post-communion 
 
 BLIMEY, what are you two blokes jawing 
 about?" said Stiff, coming back with the 
 football under his arm. He had been 
 searching for it for the last ten minutes and now 
 he returned to his mates. "I didn't have no grub 
 to eat since eight o'clock this morning, an' it's 
 three o'clock now. What about it?" 
 
 "It's me that's in the same boat," said Sulli- 
 van. "And it's ready I am for me dinner now. 
 We'll go down to the kitchen and bum something 
 from the cook." 
 
 "I'm hungry too," said Burke, who suddenly 
 recollected that his lunch had only consisted of 
 brown soap. 
 
 "Righto. The three of us will hike down and 
 see the mess sergeant," said Stiff. 
 
 Ten minutes later the men arrived at the large 
 mess shack at the corner of the village, Sullivan, 
 big and mighty, with shoulders broad as the half- 
 door of his cabin, in the townland of Kingarrow, 
 Stiff, with an alertness and vitality which belied 
 
 33 
 
34 The Dough Boys 
 
 his name, his football under his arm, and Burke, 
 with the muck of the roadway forming into dry- 
 scales on his face. At the entrance to the shack 
 they met the mess sergeant, a tall, heavily-boned 
 man, with beetling brows and protruding lips. 
 He was speaking to a chaplain, a Roman Cath- 
 olic padre, Father Connor, who was attached to 
 the Battalion. The mess sergeant and the chap- 
 lain seemed to be engaged in a violent discussion. 
 What the row was about it was impossible to say, 
 but from the distance the three men who were 
 coming forward could hear the mess sergeant ex- 
 claiming, "I can't stick it, having your flock com- 
 ing in here to make a post-communion of the ra- 
 tions of the Battalion." 
 
 The priest saw the three men approach, and 
 leaving the mess sergeant he came towards them, 
 apparently glad to have an opportunity to get 
 away from the shack. 
 
 "Good day, Sullivan," he said to the Irishman 
 when he came close. 
 
 "Good day, Father," Sullivan replied. "Old 
 Karney, the mess sergeant, looks a bit annoyed 
 about something or another. What's it about, 
 Father?" 
 
 "Says we took half the Battalion rations yes- 
 terday after Mass," said Father Connor. "As 
 
The Post-Communion 35 
 
 if men could go without food after receiving 
 the Sacrament!" 
 
 "Well, we were wantin' it yesterday mornin', 
 Father," said Sullivan. "I was as hungry as a 
 two-year-old meself, for I got out iv bed early and 
 Mass was late. And be the same token I'm hun- 
 gry this very minute. I hadn't the smell iv a 
 dinner yet. Neither had these two other men." 
 
 He pointed his finger at Burke and Stiff and 
 the priest looked at the two youngsters. 
 
 "You haven't washed your face to-day," said 
 Father Connor. "It's all covered with dirt. 
 You'll get some horrible disease if you're not 
 careful. . . . You'll become like the natives of 
 this town, who as far as I can see know nothing 
 whatever about sanitation." 
 
 "Glory! it doesn't seem to do them much 
 harm," said Sullivan. "I've never in any part 
 iv the wide world, bar me own native townland 
 of Kingarrow, seen people live till such a ripe 
 old age." 
 
 "But even that is hardly sufficient excuse for a 
 soldier to refrain from washing his face," said 
 the priest. 
 
 With these words he settled his campaigning 
 hat at a more comfortable angle on his head, 
 nodded genially at the three men, and made his 
 way out of the encampment. 
 
36 The Dough Boys 
 
 "Funny ole bloke, 'e is," said Stiff. 
 
 "But a good man," said Sullivan. "Many's a 
 fine job he has done since he came here. And 
 he was well liked away in New York in his own 
 church. 'Twas me own church, the one that I 
 used to go to service in, and many's the time I 
 spoke to Father Connor over there. When he 
 left the church to join up with the Army, his 
 congregation made a presentation to him, and a 
 good strong presentation it was. Two thou- 
 sand dollars iv the best, they gave him money 
 down. And what do ye think he done with it 
 when he came here? 
 
 "Wot?" asked Stiff. "If I had two thousand 
 I know what I would do with it — I'd have a reg- 
 ular beano." 
 
 "Ah, well, Father Connor is not the same get 
 iv a man as ye are," said Sullivan. "And for 
 the matter iv that not the same get iv a man as 
 I am. He thinks iv others, not iv himself, like 
 the saints iv old. D'ye know that recreation hall 
 up at the top of the village where we all go at 
 night when our work is done? . . ." 
 
 "I've never gone up as far as that cafe," said 
 Stiff. "I never go past the brasserie at the bot- 
 tom of the street. Blimey, you should see the 
 girl that's there." 
 
 "Glory, that's the way iv the young," said 
 
The Post-Communion 37 
 
 Sullivan, in a slow, studied voice. "It's always 
 the girls that are leading them into temptation. 
 Always and ever, for boys when the down is just 
 showin', and when their upper lips and their 
 chins are foreign to the sweep iv a razor, are as 
 silly and simple as young foals let out on the 
 grazin' for the first time. I mind meself, and 
 that was long ago, and back in me own town- 
 land iv Kingarrow " 
 
 "But wot about this 'ere bloomin' 'all that you 
 were talkin' about a minute ago," said Stiff, en- 
 deavouring to remind Sullivan that he was wan- 
 dering from the subject. 
 
 "Glory! I was forgettin' meself," said the Irish- 
 man. "That hall was paid for and furnished be 
 Father Connor from the money that his congre- 
 gation collected for him when he was leavin' 
 New York to come out here. Every penny iv 
 the two thousand dollars has gone to the place 
 to get tables and chairs and games and books. 
 That shows ye the kind iv man that he is, one 
 that thinks about others before he thinks about 
 himself. If there were people like him all over 
 the world it wouldn't be the kind iv place that 
 it is this day, with all and every one at each 
 other's throats trying to strangle the people that 
 God created." 
 
 "But what about our dinner?" asked Burke, 
 
38 The Dough Boys 
 
 fixing his eyes in turn on the two men. The 
 three were standing in the same position now as 
 when the padre had left them, Sullivan with his 
 little black clay in his mouth, Stiff with his foot- 
 ball under his arm, and Burke with the muck 
 drying on his face, curling into little scales and 
 falling off when he spoke. 
 
 "Glory be! but I've lost mind iv it," said Sulli- 
 van. "We'll go inside and see what the mess 
 sergeant can do for us. He's not a bad sort iv 
 man, but at present I don't know what he'll be 
 like after his argument with Father Connor." 
 
 The men went into the mess-shack and looked 
 round. Dinner had been by for quite a long 
 time and all the dishes were cleared away. No- 
 body was inside save Karney, who was seated at 
 the table, writing a letter and chewing tobacco. 
 He looked up from his paper when the men en- 
 tered. 
 
 "What the devil are you looking for?" he en- 
 quired. 
 
 "For a bit iv grub, if there's anything goin'," 
 said Sullivan. "We had no dinner." 
 
 "The hour for that is past, so clear out," said 
 Karney. "Do you think I've got nothin' to do 
 but wait on you fellows all day? Slide." 
 
 Saying this, he bent to his writing again. Sul- 
 
The Post-Communion 39 
 
 livan winked at his two mates and sat down on 
 a form near the door. 
 
 "It's the cold that makes me so hungry, I 
 think," he said as he sat down, speaking as if to 
 himself and addressing nobody in particular. "I 
 often get hungry in the cold and it's damned cold 
 in this arm iv the universe. I don't like the 
 French climate." 
 
 "I don't like it neither," said Stiff. "Wot price 
 the Broadway on a day like this." 
 
 "Or Kelly's saloon, the place that I used to 
 work in," said Sullivan. 
 
 "Will you clear out, you fellows," said Kar- 
 ney again fixing his eyes on the trio. "There's 
 nothin' here for you to eat if that is what you 
 are lookin' for. Yesterday it was them that were 
 at Mass here makin' a post-communion of the 
 rations and to-day it's a gang of stragglers comin' 
 in and lookin' for food when there's not a crust 
 in the place. I never have seen such a mob of 
 men in all my natural. Why the devil don't you 
 go up to the trenches and get wiped off the map ?" 
 
 "That's what we all want to know," said Burke, 
 rubbing the dry clay from his face. "I for one 
 am sick of this derned place." 
 
 "You're not the only one," said the mess-ser- 
 geant. "If you were as sick of the job here as I 
 am you would be out of it long ago. And that 
 
40 The Dough Boys 
 
 post-communion yesterday was the last straw. I 
 knew Father Connor was a simple soul, but when 
 he came to mop up all the rations in the place, it 
 got my goat." 
 
 "What did he do?" asked Sullivan who knew 
 all about the matter but chose to appear ignorant 
 of the affair. "What has put you again him, ser- 
 geant?" 
 
 "It all happened yesterday," said Karney. 
 "The priest couldn't hold service in the usual 
 place, so he asked for the loan of this shack. He 
 came to me about it, and because I'm a Catholic 
 like himself, but not as good a Catholic, maybe, 
 I gave him permission to use this room. I had 
 a job outside, so I left the place in his charge. I 
 was a darned fool, for I found when I came back 
 that the men who went to communion and were 
 fasting, fell on all the provisions in the place and 
 made a post-communion of it. 'Twas the most 
 derned barefaced job I've ever struck." 
 
 " 'Twasn't at all above board, I'll admit," said 
 Sullivan, who happened to have been one of the 
 communicants of the day before.. 
 
 "Above board!" Karney exclaimed. "It was a 
 derned scandal. I haven't got over it yet. I 
 would tell Father Connor something if he wasn't 
 such a good man, apart from his crazy ways. 
 Sanitation is his pet hobby. Talks half of his 
 
The Post-Communion 41 
 
 time about microbes and germs. He won't wash 
 his face with water taken from the village pumps. 
 Gets bottled water, Vichy it is called, for his 
 toilet. And then the statue ! That was a scream !" 
 
 "What was that?" asked Burke. 
 
 "Somethin' that ud make ye split yer sides with 
 laughin' at it," said Sullivan. "Ye miss a lot, 
 Burke, me boyo, by not goin' to the Catholic 
 church, and this was one thing that shouldn't be 
 missed for love or money. And Father Connor 
 liked the church, for 'twas as old as the hills iv 
 Kingarrow, and they are old, for is it well known 
 that the Flood was not able to rise over them, 
 and that in the time iv Noah. And in the church 
 there was a statue iv the Mother and Child, a 
 grand wooden statue that was as old as the church 
 itself. It stood to the right iv the altar, and it 
 had a lot iv wee candles lit in front iv it. Peo- 
 ple from far and near came and made their de- 
 votions in front iv this holy figure — for why? 
 Because it was held that the Mother and Child 
 could perform miracles and people that were suf- 
 ferin' from disease came there, said a prayer to 
 the Virgin, lit a candle in front iv it and kissed 
 it. Then they got cured iv their ailments, and 
 this had been done be the faithful time out iv 
 mind. Father Connor saw it and made his devo- 
 tions in front iv it, but he didn't kiss it. He 
 
42 The Dough Boys 
 
 hadn't the heart to, for he was afraid iv the 
 microbes that those who came afore him might 
 have left be their kisses. So he got it took down 
 from its stand and he washed it with brown soap 
 and water . . ." 
 
 Burke squirmed and ran his tongue along his 
 teeth. 
 
 — "put it up again and kissed it. Some iv 
 the congregation saw what he had done, and they 
 weren't a bit pleased be the doin's. 'Twas a sac- 
 rilege, they said. And I'm iv the same opinion 
 meself, for to me own way iv thinkin' the sai 
 tity iv the statue was washed away be the use iv 
 brown soap and water. The people were very 
 sick about it, almost as sick as meself at the pres- 
 ent moment, seein' that I haven't had a bit to 
 cross me mouth since breakfast time this 
 mornin'." 
 
 "Well, I'll see what I can do for you," said the 
 mess-sergeant. "There's not much left for a lay- 
 out, but I'll have a look in the larder." 
 
 So saying, Karney made an inspection of the 
 provisions in hand and discovered a piece of cold 
 beef, some cold potatoes, a loaf and a pot of cof- 
 fee. This he served out to the three men and they 
 sat down to their meal. 
 
 "Well, it's not at all bad," said Sullivan, cut- 
 ting the meat with his clasp-knife. "We might 
 
The Post-Communion 43 
 
 go further and fare worse when it comes to the 
 business iv atin'. We'll think ourselves lucky, 
 maybe, if we get as much to put in our mouths 
 when we go up to the trenches." 
 
 "But when will we get there?" asked Burke. 
 "We've been here for an age and nothing is do- 
 ing." 
 
 "You'll be there soon enough," said Karney, 
 
 sitting down again to his letter. "Maybe when 
 
 you are there you'll not like it so much. If you're 
 
 such God-derned crabbers in the trenches as you 
 
 ~'; ,r re in camp, you'll not be much good." 
 
 "But from what I hear about the matter, sol- 
 diers are always crabbing," said Sullivan, speak- 
 ing between mouthfuls. "I had two brothers iv 
 me own, and soncy fellows they were, and they 
 were in the British Army, in the Irish Guards. 
 I used to get a letter from them now and agin, 
 and it's most iv the time grousin' that they were. 
 More than three-quarters iv their letters were 
 scored out be the censor, and that manes some- 
 thin'. And for all that, they were grand soldiers. 
 One, Micky he was, and a strong butt iv a boy 
 the same Micky, got a decoration — a medal — for 
 bravery. And the other, Fergus was his name, 
 got a recommendation for a medal, but did not 
 get it. He told me about it in a letter, and he 
 
44 The Dough Boys 
 
 was annoyed. He wanted to have two medals go 
 to the Sullivans iv Kingarrow." 
 
 "Are the two of them out here now?" asked 
 Karney. 
 
 Sullivan laid his clasp-knife down on the table, 
 put his elbow beside it and leant forward, his 
 head in his big hand. 
 
 "They're out here, yet, the two iv them, under 
 the clay," he said impressively with a mournful 
 shake of his head. "One iv them, and that was 
 Fergus, died with gas poisonin', and the other, 
 Micky, was killed at the battle iv the Somme. 
 The third, that's meself, is out here now, the last 
 iv the Sullivans iv Kingarrow, and I don't mane 
 to leave France in a hurry, not at laste till I've 
 sent a good dozen iv the Hineys to the Judgment 
 seat iv God." 
 
 As he spoke he raised his clasp-knife from the 
 table and put it in his pocket. 
 
 "Ye two make a meal iv it," he said to Stiff 
 and Burke. "As for me, I can't settle to a meal 
 when I think iv what was, iv the two boys, Micky 
 and Fergus, that are gone. For it's the grand 
 boys they were entirely." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "And when d'ye think we'll be gettin' up to the 
 trenches?" Sullivan enquired. "It's the long 
 time that we're stayin' here, doin' nothin' but 
 
The Post-Communion 45 
 
 clanin' the streets and marchin' out and marchin' 
 back agin and doin' nothin else at all, at all." 
 
 "There's a bloomin' rumour that we're goin' 
 up there soon," said Stiff. "And blimey ! I'll be 
 glad o' the change from this dead and alive 'ole 
 where there's never nuffink doin'." 
 
 "But a rumour's never to be believed," said 
 the mess-sergeant. "Rumours stretch like India 
 rubber, gettin' bigger and bigger every minute. 
 Last night I heard that the Hiney's broke through 
 at Nancy. This mornin' the news was that we 
 were goin' back to the States again, for peace 
 was goin' to be declared shortly. Rumours 
 should never be believed till they're officially con- 
 tradicted, somebody says, and I hold with that." 
 
 "Well, it's back to me own shack that I'm goin' 
 now," said Sullivan, rising to his feet. "Thank 
 ye very much, sergeant, for the dinner. And the 
 two iv yees, where are ye goin' ?" he asked, turn- 
 ing to the two youngsters who had just finished 
 their meal and were busily engaged in puffing 
 cigarettes. 
 
 "I'm going back to Headquarters," said Burke. 
 "I work there." 
 
 "A dog-robber?" Karney enquired. 
 
 "Yes, I was one," said Burke. "But I'm trying 
 to slide out of the job. I don't like it." 
 
 "Try and get hunched on to my platoon," said 
 
46 The Dough Boys 
 
 Sullivan. "We're a tough lot and ye'll be sure 
 to like us. Wait till we get into the trenches and 
 ye'll see what we'll do." 
 
 "I'll ask the Colonel and see if he'll allow me," 
 said Burke. "I don't care for the man." 
 
 "What!" Karney exclaimed. "Don't care for 
 fToughey! You should be ashamed of yourself, 
 you derned crackerjack! He's one of the best 
 men, and when you've known him as long as I've 
 known him, you'll change your opinion. I have 
 fought with him in Cuba, in the Philippines and 
 on the Mexican Border. And a finer man I've 
 never struck in all my natural." 
 
 "But I don't like him," said Burke, memories 
 of brown soap and water thronging his mind. "I 
 hate him." 
 
 "Every one to his taste," said Sullivan, "and 
 you, you limb, to yours. Ye'll maybe know what 
 is what before ye get much older. But if ye care 
 to get into my platoon, just speak to the Major 
 and maybe he'll let ye come. I've a likin' for ye, 
 although ye have the temper iv a weasel. And 
 you, where are ye for now?" he asked Stiff. 
 
 " 'Angin' 'round," said the Londoner. " 'Ang- 
 in' 'round. Got a job this mornin' cleanin' away 
 a dung-pile from the front o' company orderly 
 room and am finished. Wot I'm goin' to do now, 
 I dunno." 
 
The Post-Communion 47 
 
 "Then come with me to my shack, boyo," said 
 Sullivan. "I've a gramyphone there and lashin's 
 and lavin's iv new records. We'll make a night 
 iv it if ye come." 
 
 Burke left the mess-shack, a cigarette in his 
 mouth and his hands in his trousers pockets. Out- 
 side the door was a field kitchen with the fire 
 aglare and the water in the boiler bubbling mer- 
 rily. Beside the kitchen was a large pile of wood 
 thatched with straw, and a man was there, a tall, 
 raw-boned soldier, hewing blocks of wood with 
 an axe. Fuel was very scarce in the district. 
 Coal was difficult to obtain and firewood was 
 gathered by the soldiers for the use of kitchen 
 and camp. Fatigue parties went out on this job 
 daily, and Sullivan had been on the job in the 
 morning before he met Burke and Stiff. Burke, 
 as he made his way homewards, could not get the 
 Irishman out of his mind, the strength and gen- 
 uine good humour of the man appealed to him. 
 All that he longed for at the present moment was 
 to get away from the job in the Headquarters 
 kitchen and get into Sullivan's company. There 
 he would work with a man after his own heart, 
 a strong fearless man; and strength appealed to 
 the boy, which was not to be wondered at, seeing 
 he had only passed his seventeenth year. 
 
 "I'll ask the Major to release me to-night," he 
 
48 The Dough Boys 
 
 said. "If I'm allowed to go into Sullivan's pla- 
 toon I'll be quite content. Gee! won't he be a 
 fighter when he gets to the trenches. He's a 
 tough one." 
 
 He passed through the street, which was very 
 quiet now. Many of the soldiers were out on pa- 
 rade, and the square was practically deserted. A 
 massive policeman, with his baton and revolver, 
 stood near the pond speaking to a young girl. He 
 was a finely built man and looked splendid in his 
 campaigning hat, his yellow leggings and well- 
 cut uniform. Burke looked at him with admir- 
 ing eyes for a moment, then pursued his way 
 back to battalion Headquarters. 
 
 He was in a good humour now and well pleased 
 with himself. The sulky mood of a few hours 
 earlier had left him and fancies and dreams filled 
 his mind. How grand it would be to go to the 
 trenches, he thought, to go up there and fight just 
 as the soldiers of other lands were fighting. For 
 weeks and months he had been waiting, longing 
 for the moment when his battalion would be or- 
 dered to the fighting line. He had come out in 
 the late Summer and it was now early November, 
 with the cold hint of Winter in the early morn- 
 ing. And there was a certain dampness in the 
 air which at times chilled him to the bone. Amer- 
 ica was a much better country than this, he 
 
The Post-Communion 49 
 
 thought. Even if the cold was more intense at 
 times, it was a drier cold that did not crawl in- 
 side his woollens like something sticky and 
 clammy, and chill the very blood in his body. 
 France was all right and he had come out to fight 
 for it, but America w'as a much better country. 
 When the War was at an end he would go back 
 there, but not before he had seen much fighting. 
 And so on, the thoughts and fancies rioted 
 through his mind as he made his way through 
 the slushy streets of Mud-wallow towards the 
 battalion Headquarters. 
 
 He was a very handsome youngster with a 
 straight-cut nose, pale cheeks and finely chiselled 
 chin, and sparkling eyes that were usually alight 
 with the fire of interest. Burke's father was a 
 director of a big store in New York, a man of 
 wealth and position. The youngster — Philip 
 was his name — had received a good education 
 and his studies were almost completed when 
 America joined the Allies in the War. Philip 
 was one of the first to enroll. He gave his age 
 as twenty and was accepted as one of the fighters 
 who placed themselves in the ranks of the United 
 States Army to do battle against a foe in a land 
 which they had never seen. In the course of time 
 the boy came out to France, and here he was now, 
 getting ready with thousands of others for the 
 
50 The Dough Boys 
 
 day when America would take her place in the 
 trenches. 
 
 The battle line was some fifty miles away from 
 Mud-wallow, but at night when the village was 
 silent, and when most of the men were wrapped 
 in slumber, Burke, when he listened, could hear 
 the far-off roll of guns thundering through the 
 darkness, telling of the place in which men fought 
 and died in the great struggle against the enemy. 
 And he longed to be there, which was not to be 
 wondered at, for the heart of youth thirsts for 
 adventure. 
 
 Almost without realising it, he came to the 
 door of the kitchen which he had left a few hours 
 before; he went in. The old cook, Donovan, was 
 sitting down by the fire, a writing tablet on one 
 knee which was placed over the other, and a pen- 
 cil in his hand. He was writing a letter to his 
 wife, for he was a married man. Lacy, the man 
 with the squint, was placing some wood on the 
 fire under the oven. Donovan heard the young 
 man enter and he looked up. 
 
 "Where have you been?" he asked. 
 
 "I've been 'round the village," said Burke. 
 Then, as an overmastering anger seized him, he 
 continued. "Round the damned village just to 
 get out of sight of you and that other dog-rob- 
 ber." 
 
The Post-Communion 51 
 
 "And left us all the dishes to wash," said 
 Lacy. 
 
 "Well, it's your job," said the uncontrollable 
 youth. "I wasn't bred to work at washing 
 dishes." 
 
 "I reckon not," said Donovan in the soft tones 
 of a man who is not easily annoyed. "But you 
 don't mind leavin' the work for others to do." 
 
 "Wait till the Major comes back and he'll not 
 be pleased when he knows how you've spent the 
 afternoon," said Lacy. "He'll be told all about 
 it, and I'll give him the dope myself." 
 
 "Sneak!" said Burke and made for the door 
 again. 
 
 "Burke!" 
 
 "What's it now ?" enquired Burke coming to a 
 halt and looking at Donovan, who had called him. 
 "What have you got to say?" 
 
 "Only this," said Donovan, getting to his feet 
 and placing the writing pad in his belt. "You'll 
 be annoyed with the Colonel, I suppose, because 
 of that business with the soap. But if you have 
 any sense you'll forget all about it. It was done 
 for your own good, for as far as I know the 
 Colonel has your welfare at heart. When you 
 came here first he came to me and he said : 'Dono- 
 van, you've got a young kid in your charge now, 
 
52 The Dough Boys 
 
 a boy wEo shouldn't really be out heu til all. 
 He's only seventeen years of age/' 
 
 "Who the devil has been telling him my age?" 
 enquired Burke. 
 
 "I don't know," said Donovan. "But things 
 get round and I guess it got round to him what 
 your age is. Anyway, he took a great interest 
 in you and he told me to treat you just the same 
 as if you were my own son." 
 
 "Pile it on," said Burke in a tone of fine irony. 
 
 "And you're damned hard to put up with," said 
 Donovan. "You're here on this job, an easy job, 
 and you hike away from the place when there's 
 any work to do. And you want to fight ! I guess 
 that the fightin' you do will be damned little. 
 When it comes to a tight corner you'll vanish 
 out o' it just as you did to-day." 
 
 Donovan spoke with studied slowness, giving 
 full value to each word. Burke, with one hand 
 on the door-handle, listened, and when the old 
 cook finished he did not speak. The corners of 
 his mouth twitched and the Adam's apple of his 
 throat rose and fell as if he were trying to swal- 
 low something. 
 
 "I suppose you two are going to tell the Major 
 about how I cleared off," he said, after a silence 
 that lasted for a full minute. 
 
 "Yes, we'd tell him all about it if you weren't 
 
The Post-Communion 53 
 
 such a derned light-headed young fool," said 
 Donovan. "If you were an older man we'd have 
 got rid of you long ago. As it is, we suffer you 
 and hold our peace." 
 
 "But I don't like being here," Burke protested. 
 "I took up the job because I was ordered to do 
 so. I want to be with the other fellows. They 
 have a much better life than we have here, more 
 fun and more manly work. Here it's cleaning 
 boots and sweeping floors and washing dishes." 
 
 "You never crabbed when you had to go out 
 on night-work, I suppose," questioned Donovan. 
 "Or when you had to march for hours in the rain 
 and the water running down the back of your 
 neck and the " 
 
 "I crabbed of course," said Burke. "Every- 
 body grumbled, but even then the life was much 
 better than the life here. And if the others go 
 up to the trenches after a while, we'll have to stay 
 here and keep on cooking and sweeping floors and 
 washing dishes. The job doesn't appeal to me, 
 and I want to get out of it — clean out of it." 
 
 "All right, Burke," said Donovan. "You can 
 ask the Major to-night to let you go back to your 
 platoon. He'll maybe allow you when he sees you 
 so bent on going. At present dinner is a bit late 
 in getting made ready, so you'd better rustle 
 about a bit and help us with our work. That is 
 
54 The Dough Boys 
 
 if you're not too derned high and mighty to 
 work." 
 
 "What will I do?" asked Burke. 
 
 "If you take my advice," said Lacy, with a 
 malicious grin, "you'd better wash your face first. 
 It looks as if you've been wallerin' in some of 
 them heaps that's outside the doors of the houses 
 about here." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 BOSSES 
 
 IN the wide low-roofed room of the Battalion 
 Headquarters mess, the officers were sitting 
 down to dinner. A round table, covered with 
 a coarse white cloth, stood in the centre of the 
 room and on this stood a large lamp which burned 
 brightly, lighting up the remote corners of the 
 apartment. The old oak beams across the roof 
 were covered with cobwebs and up there the 
 shadows played tragedies. A fire burned in the 
 open hearth and fitful flames danced over the 
 brown wood which served for fuel. 
 
 Colonel Everett sat at the head of the table: 
 a well-set man with massive shoulders and heavy 
 chin. The Major was there, a short, low-set man, 
 full of good humour and simplicity. He was well 
 liked by those with whom he associated and those 
 whom he commanded. He and the Colonel were 
 bosom chums, and when dinner was at an end, of 
 nights they sat down together and played cards. 
 Card-playing for money, the stakes never being 
 more than a cent a game, was their only recrea- 
 
 55 
 
56 The Dough Boys 
 
 tion. The Major's name was Watson. He sat 
 at the bottom of the table facing the Colonel. 
 
 The other people in the mess were the bat- 
 talion doctor, a tall man, of middle age, with 
 heavy brows and sharp, penetrating eyes. Be- 
 side him was seated an interpreter, an officer in 
 the French Army. On the other side of the table 
 sat a journalist, attached to the American Ex- 
 peditionary Force, a man who had worked prior 
 to America's entry into the war as a correspond- 
 ent for the States paper with the French Army. 
 He had been in France since the war began, and 
 had furnished his papers with accounts of the 
 various big engagements in which the French 
 had fought. One other man was there, Father 
 Connor. He was about forty years of age, with 
 a hearty open face full of good humour and kind- 
 liness. His high cheek bones and his brogue told 
 of the country from which he had come. He was 
 an Irishman, not by birth, but by parentage, and 
 even though he was born in the States, he had 
 captured a brogue from his mother's tongue, and 
 of this brogue he was very proud. 
 
 The Colonel looked 'round the table and saw 
 that all were waiting. He cleared his throat, as 
 if he was going to give his men an order on the 
 parade ground. 
 
 "Donovan!" he called. 
 
Bosses 57 
 
 The door of the kitchen opened and Donovan 
 entered bearing a steaming soup tureen between 
 his hands. Burke followed with a number of 
 plates, one of which he placed in front of each 
 of the officers. From time to time, as he was en- 
 gaged on this job, he fixed a covert eye on the 
 Colonel, but the officer seemed to take no notice 
 of the boy. Apparently he had forgotten all 
 about the incident of the brown soap and water. 
 
 The two servants withdrew. 
 
 "A busy day?" the Colonel enquired, looking 
 at the doctor. 
 
 "Nothing much doing with our own men," re- 
 plied the doctor. "But the villagers all seem to 
 be getting sick now. When we first came here 
 they seemed to be frightened of me. But 
 now " 
 
 "I suppose it will be the young girls who want 
 you most," said Father Connor with a smile. "A 
 good-looking man makes a great appeal entirely 
 to the fair ones." 
 
 All laughed, for the doctor was not at all a 
 handsome man. 
 
 "No, Father, it's not the girls," said the 
 doctor, and a gleam of mock malice showed in 
 his eyes. He was going to get a bit of his own 
 back. "It's not alone the girls who are feeling 
 seedy to-day. It's the whole village generally. 
 
58 The Dough Boys 
 
 You remember the middens that annoyed you so 
 much ? You said that the germs from the manure 
 heaps were getting into the water. I analysed 
 the water from the village pumps and found that 
 it was in some measure true. And then we put 
 chloride of lime on the middens, to kill the germs. 
 Very effective, that measure. The germs were 
 killed, but" — the doctor leant both his hands on 
 the table and looked across his soup-plate at the 
 priest — "but the villagers don't like chloride of 
 lime in the water. It's making them all ill." 
 
 The men laughed and even the priest joined in 
 the merriment. A joke, even one against him- 
 self, always appealed to him. 
 
 "They've been used to these germs and mi- 
 crobes all their life," said the doctor. "Since 
 they were born they have been fighting them, and 
 now they are able to repel any attack. Our men 
 are not, and a number are falling ill through 
 drinking the water here." 
 
 "They'll get used to it after a while," said 
 Watson. "I remember a man who was with us 
 in Mexico — his name was Karney, and he is a 
 mess-sergeant here at the present time. It was 
 hot as hell, a regular heat with the sand-dunes 
 whirling in the air and not a tree to shade a man. 
 Well, this guy Karney drank the water that I 
 had used for shaving." 
 
Bosses 59 
 
 "I remember that," said the Colonel. Then, 
 clearing his throat, he called on Donovan. He 
 spoke gruffly, almost grudgingly. Still, he was 
 a very kind-hearted man, one who strove to ap- 
 pear a tyrant but at heart was simple and good- 
 natured. Predestined to gentleness, his stern 
 manner and speech was a mask with which he 
 strove to hide the ineffable kindness of his soul. 
 
 The second course was laid, and the three men 
 who were engaged on the job this time took their 
 departure. 
 
 "The men are pretty sick of being here for such 
 a long time," said the war correspondent. "When 
 are they due for up there?" 
 
 As he spoke he pointed his thumb over his 
 shoulder. This was an eternal question of his. 
 Here, where he was stationed, there was very 
 little to write about and the correspondent was 
 a man who loved a story for his paper. The life 
 in the village gave him very little scope for his 
 profession, for the news-value of red-roofed 
 houses and the ordinary work of the back-area 
 was utterly nil. 
 
 "It won't be long now," said the Colonel. 
 "Things are on the way and we may get shoved 
 there any day. It will be a good thing, too, for 
 the guys are getting derned dissatisfied. A num- 
 ber of them almost refuse to go out and do jobs 
 
60 The Dough Boys 
 
 on the streets, jobs such as cleaning up the gut- 
 ters or sprinkling the dung-heaps with chloride 
 of lime. And, by God! I don't blame them. If 
 I wasn't a Colonel, I would get jugged for re- 
 fusing to do it many a time." 
 
 "I heard one of the men speaking to-day," 
 said Watson. "A big red-haired Irishman. He 
 was hewing wood outside the village and he did 
 not see me approach. 'A job like this gets me 
 goat,' he said. 'I've come across here to fight 
 Jerrys and not to cut down wood.' " 
 
 "All are of the same opinion," said the Colo- 
 nel. "But what's to be done? If we're not told 
 to go we cannot go, and there the matter ends. 
 And to-day I received orders to let off twenty of 
 the men to work as labourers with the Railway 
 Engineers, somewhere up North. We'll soon 
 have nobody left here, save the officers and 
 Father Connor." 
 
 "If it's to save yer souls that I stay here, I will 
 have my work cut out for me, I'm tellin' ye," 
 said the priest. 
 
 When coffee was served, the plates were 
 cleared away from the table. The doctor got to 
 his feet. 
 
 "I've got to go now," he said. "There's an old 
 man at the other end of the village and he has 
 caught pneumonia. Says that the water from the 
 
Bosses 61 
 
 pump outside the door has caused it. Anyway, 
 I've got to go and see him." 
 
 He went out. 
 
 "A derned good fellow," said the Colonel. "He 
 is busy all his spare time attending to the vil- 
 lagers. And they love him. They'd do anything 
 for him." 
 
 Donovan came in for the coffee cups, but be- 
 fore he began the job of removing them, he went 
 up to the Colonel and stood at attention. 
 
 "What is it, Donovan?" asked the Colonel, 
 seeing that the cook wanted to speak to him. 
 
 "About Burke, sir." 
 
 "Has he reformed his ways since lunch?" 
 asked the Colonel, and a twinkle of humour lit his 
 eyes. 
 
 "It's not that, sir," said Donovan. "He wants 
 to leave here. He wants to talk to you about it, 
 if you have time." 
 
 "All right," said the Colonel. "Show him in." 
 
 Donovan left the room without the coffee cups 
 and a moment later Burke appeared. The lamp 
 showed his face, pale, but carefully washed and 
 bearing no trace of the football which struck it 
 earlier in the day. His coat was carefully but- 
 toned and no trace of the kitchen was on his ap- 
 parel. He wore no cap and his hair was brushed 
 neatly back. For a moment he hesitated at the 
 
62 The Dough Boys 
 
 door as if on the point of turning back and run- 
 ning away. But the halt was only for a mo- 
 ment. He looked at the Colonel, and then, as if 
 summoning up all the courage which he pos- 
 sessed, he advanced towards the table with a 
 steady step. 
 
 "Well, Burke, what can I do for you?" asked 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "I want to get back to the platoon," said the 
 boy. "I don't like working here. I joined the 
 Army to fight, sir." 
 
 "When you're here, my boy, you've got to do 
 what you're told," said the Colonel. "What you 
 want to do doesn't particularly matter. What 
 you've got to do is the thing. You want to clear 
 out of the kitchen? Why? Does Donovan not 
 treat you well ? Have you any complaint to make 
 against him?" 
 
 "No, sir," said Burke, wishing at that mo- 
 ment that he was on the other side of the door 
 with Donovan and Lacy. 
 
 "But you prefer to be back with your platoon?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, I'll see what I can do for you," said the 
 Colonel, nodding towards the door as hint that 
 the affair was at an end. Burke took his depar- 
 ture, pleased that the matter was ended. 
 
 "You'll let him go?" queried the Major. 
 
Bosses 63 
 
 The Colonel nodded. 
 
 "I'll get plenty to come in his place, for the job 
 is quite an easy one, too easy for Burke's liking," 
 he said. "An old and sober man is best as a dog- 
 robber. Young blood is too restless for the job. 
 I'll send him off with that party which is going 
 as helpers with the Engineers. He'll be quite 
 safe there till the stiffer work comes to us." 
 
 As the Colonel spoke a far-away look settled 
 in his eyes. Probably he was visualising the fu- 
 ture and the fighting in the trenches of France. 
 Donovan cleared away the coffee cups, removed 
 the table-cloth, heaped some more wood on the 
 fire and made his exit. The interpreter and the 
 chaplain went out together, the correspondent 
 sat down by the fire, a cigarette in his mouth, 
 and wrote the opening paragraph of a story for 
 his paper. A pack of cards was produced, and 
 the Colonel and Major sat down to their game. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 BUNKIES 
 
 RUMOUR was rife in the sleeping shack 
 and the rumour was such as saddened the 
 men whose hearts were thirsting for ad- 
 venture away up in the firing line where the 
 armies of the world were grappling at one an- 
 other's throats. The men of the X Division, men 
 from every state in the Union, dough boys of 
 muscle and mettle, ready for the Big Job and 
 eager, not going into the fighting line ! Pershing 
 said so. Other divisions of the State Army were 
 up there already and had seen fighting and had 
 won honours and glory on the field. But X Di- 
 vision would never win honour or glory. In fact, 
 it would never fight, for its job was a scavenging 
 one. The men would have to clein dirty cess- 
 pools, sweep gutters, and cart dung-heaps away 
 from the towns in which they were stationed. 
 And they would have to do this till the end of the 
 war, till peace was declared and the soldiers re- 
 turned to their homes with the bands playing 
 them into Boston, New York and Philadelphia. 
 
 6 4 
 
Bunkies 65 
 
 Pershing had said that the X Division was not 
 going to fight, and therefore it must be true. 
 
 A servant in the battalion orderly room had 
 spread the rumour. He heard it from a com- 
 pany cook, who in turn obtained it from an offi- 
 cer's servant. This servant accompanied his 
 master to the British battle zone in Flanders. 
 And it was up there that Pershing was when he 
 spoke about X Division. This servant did not 
 hear Pershing say so, but he heard it from a man 
 who heard it from a friend of an officer's bat- 
 man who was speaking to But why should 
 
 we trace the rumour to its source, if it had a 
 source? Rumours are seldom made. They sim- 
 ply occur, making themselves manifest for no 
 particular reason, like a wart on the nose. 
 
 But the rumour being generated, grew and 
 grew, and at last reached the ears of men who 
 felt sick at heart when they heard it. X Division 
 was not going to the trenches. It was simply 
 to remain in the back areas and here the men 
 could cool their martial ardour by sweeping 
 streets and cleaning cess-pools. 
 
 The hour was half-past eight in the evening. 
 "Lights out" had sounded and all men should be 
 under blankets now. An American corporal 
 walked down the sleeping shack peering into each 
 bunk when he passed. Suddenly he came to a 
 
66 The Dough Boys 
 
 halt opposite a bunk in which a large bulk under 
 the blankets denoted a sleeper who had covered 
 himself from head to toe. Neither face, hand 
 nor foot was showing, but the outline of the 
 sleeping man could be traced under the blanket. 
 The corporal bent down and touched the sleeper's 
 shoulders with his hand and under the hand the 
 shoulders gave way like a pillow of down. 
 
 The corporal made investigations and discov- 
 ered a trench helmet, a pack, and an overcoat 
 beneath the blankets. As these articles were laid 
 out they resembled a sleeping man with the bed- 
 clothes pulled over his head. 
 
 "Gee! that's some camouflage!" muttered the 
 corporal, appreciation in his voice. Then he 
 looked at a sleeper in an adjoining bunk. 
 
 "Hey! Sullivan!" he called. "Where's your 
 friend, Burke?" 
 
 Sullivan, who was snoring heavily, made no 
 reply. 
 
 "Do you know where that young crackerjack 
 is, Stiff?" 
 
 The corporal addressed this remark to a man 
 who lay in the bunk next to Sullivan's and Stiff 
 fixed an innocent look on the corporal. 
 
 "He ain't in yet, is 'e?" he enquired. 
 
 "Don't look like it, does it?" said the corporal, 
 pointing his finger at the bunk which contained 
 
Bunkies 67 
 
 the pack, the overcoat and the trench helmet. 
 "You don't know where he has hiked to?" 
 
 "Don't know nuffink about 'im," Stiff replied. 
 
 The corporal pulled a note-book from his 
 pocket and made an entry. 
 
 "It'll be the jug for Burke this trip," he said. 
 "He'll have time to cool his heels in the animated 
 cemetery when he comes back." 
 
 The corporal made his way to the door and 
 went out. As he did so Sullivan ceased snor- 
 ing and sat up in bed. 
 
 "And where in the whole wide world iv mys- 
 tery will that fool iv a laddybuck be at all, at all, 
 Stiff?" he enquired. "It's the devil for raking 
 and rovin' that he is entirely." 
 
 "Don't know where he is," said Stiff. "I saw 
 him goin' out after supper and 'e 'ad a book o' 
 poetry under his arm." 
 
 "Well, I'm wishful that he was back," said 
 Sullivan lying down again. "I don't want to see 
 the poor boy, even if he is a poet, put in the jug, 
 and on the first night with us, too." 
 
 "And after we took so much bloomin' pains 
 with the making o' the bed, too," said Stiff in 
 tones which an artist might use if he saw one 
 of his finished masterpieces slashed to ribbons 
 with a knife. 
 
 But just as he spoke Burke entered the shack 
 
68 The Dough Boys 
 
 and stumbled on his way to his bunk through the 
 darkness. Presently he came to his bed, felt the 
 helmet and the pack and the overcoat and thrust 
 them aside and sat down. 
 
 "Thanks very much," he said to the bunks near 
 him. "Have I been spotted?" 
 
 "The jug the morrow for ye, ye limb," said 
 Sullivan. "Why the divil did you stay out for 
 so long?" 
 
 "I was reading and forgot the time," said 
 Burke. 
 
 "Readm' poethry I hear that ye were," said 
 Sullivan. "It's not much good for this kind iv 
 life, me bucko, when all that we'll have to be 
 doin' in future will be the clanin' iv streets and 
 the scrapin' away iv middens like hens iv war. 
 There was one great pote iv old Ireland and his 
 name was Tom Moore, and it's the grand things 
 that he wrote. It wasn't Tom Moore that ye were 
 reading?" 
 
 "Not Moore," said Burke, "but Whitman." 
 
 "A man unbeknown to me," said Sullivan. 
 ''And where does he come from at all?" 
 
 "America." 
 
 "I've never heard iv him, so he can't be much 
 good," said Sullivan. "Not known outside iv his 
 own barony like." 
 
 The corporal who had been in the shack a few 
 
Bunkies 69 
 
 minutes before, entered the room again. With 
 his electric lamp lighting the way he came up to 
 Burke's bunk and looked at the young man. 
 
 "So you haven't forgotten to come back?" he 
 enquired. 
 
 "I'm sorry for being so late," said Burke. "I 
 was reading and forgot all about the time." 
 
 "Well, you know what the penalty is for not 
 being in when "Lights out" is tapped," said the 
 corporal. "This time I'll slip over the matter, 
 but if you do it again " 
 
 He left the sentence unfinished, but Burke un- 
 derstood. 
 
 "Thanks, corporal," he said. "Have a cig- 
 arette." 
 
 The corporal took the proffered cigarette, lit 
 it and made his way out. Burke got under the 
 blankets and lit a cigarette himself. Several 
 sparks flared along the bed-line which showed 
 that most of the men were smoking. 
 
 "'Eard about it?" enquired Stiff. "Ain't it 
 'ell." 
 
 "I'll desert if it's true," said Burke, to whom 
 the question was addressed. "To go on sweep- 
 ing the streets instead of fighting is not to my 
 liking." 
 
 "Glory be! It can't be true," said Sullivan. 
 "Coming out here across the ocean to do nothing 
 
70 The Dough Boys 
 
 but sweep streets is not me own job, I'm telling 
 ye. But there's never much truth in rumours, 
 and that is a bit iv a consolation. I've heard 
 meself that some iv us are goin' up with the 
 British Army to work with the American engi- 
 neers. We're to stay up there till we're wanted 
 when our battalion is ready for the ructions iv 
 war. I hope if it's so that the three iv us get 
 away. Then we'll have a glorious time and may- 
 be get a bit iv fightin' on our own bat. An Irish- 
 man is never as happy as when there's a bit iv 
 fightin' to be done." 
 
 This was very true in relation to Murtagh Sul- 
 livan, emigrant from Ireland and before the war 
 a bartender in Kelly's saloon in the city of New 
 York. He was a dare-devil, fond of fun and all 
 sorts of pranks. But at bottom he was a genuine, 
 true-hearted and good-humoured man, fond of 
 company and a fight when the opportunity arose. 
 He was very strong, so powerful that very few 
 men would stand up to him in a fistic encounter. 
 For all that, he was a man with business instincts, 
 a white-jacketed bartender who found favour in 
 the eyes of his boss as well as in the eyes of the 
 proprietor's daughter, Sheila Kelly, a pretty girl 
 with red cheeks and liquid brown eyes which re- 
 minded Murtagh whenever he looked at them of 
 the far-stretching moors of his native Kingarrow.. 
 
Bunkies 71 
 
 And he often looked in those eyes, not from the 
 distance which convention allows, but which love 
 desires. Thus Murtagh Sullivan was on the high 
 road to success and happiness, for when the boss, 
 Kelly, who was well on in years, died, the saloon 
 would pass to Sheila, his only child. Then Mike 
 — but why anticipate or pry into the civil affairs 
 of Murtagh Sullivan, who now, as a soldier, had 
 sworn to fight for America on the battlefields of 
 France. 
 
 Stiff was a different type of soldier, a boy of 
 whom Curiosity had made a traveller and dis- 
 coverer. Born in the town of London, he had 
 travelled over half the globe, and went hungry 
 or fed full at many ports before he reached eight- 
 een, his present age. He was in New York, 
 when America declared war, and as heat and cold 
 had aged his countenance, he was believed when 
 he told the authorities that his age was twenty- 
 one. He was taken in the Army, and booked for 
 further adventures on the field of war. He had 
 not one penny to his name when he came to X 
 Division, but this was nothing new to Stiff. From 
 the beginning of things, for him it was a red- 
 letter day in his life when he could rattle one 
 quarter against another in his pocket. Still, 
 though privations had been his lot, he was a 
 happy man, one who could sing carols to the as- 
 
72 The Dough Boys 
 
 phalt while he waited ninety-ninth in a bed-line 
 on the streets of New York, and one who had an 
 appetite at any moment for a meal of chop-suey 
 or a dinner which began with anchovies and 
 olives and finished with cigars and coffee. But 
 this latter type of meal was one that seldom came 
 his way. 
 
 Burke, the third man of the newly formed 
 trio, who had been released from battalion head- 
 quarters that morning, was, in addition to many 
 other things, a poet who read poetry and loved 
 it, who wrote verse which when written never 
 pleased him. But despite his taste for fine art, he 
 had a very short temper and a taste for fighting 
 and mischief. He was the Villon of the com- 
 pany. 
 
 "You're not arf a bloke, Burke," said Stiff, 
 rousing himself in his bunk and bending across 
 towards the poet. "Writin' songs?" 
 
 "I amuse myself at it at times," said Burke. 
 
 "Righto," said Stiff, with the air of a man who 
 has suddenly come to a momentous decision. "I 
 want yer to write a song for me." 
 
 "For you! What do you want with a song?" 
 
 "I don't want it for myself," said Stiff, as if 
 rejecting with some scorn some gift which had 
 been offered him. "Blimey! I wouldn't look arf 
 
Bunkies 73 
 
 a nib wiv a song wrote about me. I want a song 
 ter send ter Babette." 
 
 "Which of them is Babette?" asked Burke. 
 "There are so many of them that I don't know 
 which you mean. The one in the Cafe Moulin 
 Noir?" 
 
 "Not 'er," said Stiff in tones of scorn. 
 "Wouldn't 'ave 'er to promenade wiv if she was 
 the queen o' bloomin' France. It's annuver one, 
 in a cafe at the other end o' the town." 
 
 "All right. If you let me see the girl, I'll 
 write a poem for you," said Burke. "But I must 
 see her first. If I write about a girl I must see 
 what she's like, if she has a nice dimpled chin, 
 waving tresses and all the rest of it. Can we 
 see her to-morrow night, you and I?" 
 
 "The two o' us!" Stiff exclaimed. "No 
 bloomin' fear, ole sport! You can speak French 
 and I cannot. In you come with your "promenade 
 avec me sis soir," and out I go. No bloomin' fear 
 o' you comin' wiv me. If yer can't write a song 
 without seein' Babette, then yer not the bloke for 
 the job." 
 
 Sullivan stirred uneasily in his bed, gave a 
 grunt of remonstrance and sat up. 
 
 "Are ye two ould women ever goin' to sleep," 
 he called. "If I hear another word I'll get the 
 
74 The DougH Boys 
 
 two iv ye out be the scruff iv yer necks and sit 
 on ye." 
 
 There was no further talk. Sullivan, the gen- 
 tlest of men towards his two friends, was pos- 
 sessed of wild fancies at times, and he might get 
 up and drag them out to the floor. But the two 
 men were wise and did not speak again. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE DETAII, 
 
 AND I'm glad to leave it, to get out iv it, 
 to get to the Back iv Beyont, miles and 
 leagues away from this mud-wallow iv 
 the divil," said Sullivan as he stood on parade 
 three mornings afterwards preparatory to his 
 transfer into the American Engineers, who were 
 working at the back of the fighting line some- 
 where up North. A party of thirty was going, 
 strong, well-set up men, unafraid of work and the 
 onerous toil which is ever being performed in the 
 track of an army at war. 
 
 "Sick I am iv this place and all the rules and 
 regulations and the things we have to do and the 
 things we haven't to do," said Sullivan, warming 
 to his subject. "Us, the soldiers iv the States, 
 are forbidden to buy, or accept as gifts, whisky, 
 brandy, or champagne. That's from the regula- 
 tions that's hung up in the shacks. Then on the 
 night that ye skip mess to get a feed on yer own, 
 ye find that the cook dishes out rale stake, frieds 
 and apple pie. Laundry money comes to ye when 
 
 75 
 
76 The Dough Boys 
 
 ye've nothing to wash. Ye've got to have yer 
 baths in billets in a mess-tin. If ye go out and 
 buy a pair iv putts ye'll find on yer return that 
 the supply sergeant, has taken it in his head to 
 issue better ones than what ye've purchased. 
 And cold it is here, weather that would freeze 
 the ears off a wooden god and fires are only lit 
 in our huts for the purpose iv dryin' clothes." 
 
 "The same applies to quarters occupied by of- 
 ficers/' said Top-sergeant Casey, who had charge 
 of the party. 
 
 "It's all right if it is, but is it?" said Stiff, who 
 shivered a little as he stood on the bleak parade 
 ground. 
 
 "Ye limb ye, Stiff," said Sullivan. "Ye'll be 
 quite glad, me boy, if ye find other people as un- 
 happy as yerself." 
 
 "But you feel the cold as much as any one your- 
 self, Sullivan," said Burke. 
 
 "Iv coorse I do, me boy, just as much as any 
 one, and it's not to me taste at all," said the Irish- 
 man. "I'll waken from me bed one mornin' and 
 I'll find meself frozen as stiff as an icicle." 
 
 "But if you fellows don't stand this little hard- 
 ship here when ye have full meals and drill and 
 football to warm your hides and blankets to wrap 
 yourselves in, how the hell will you be able to en- 
 dure the life in the trenches?" asked the top- 
 
The Detail 77 
 
 sergeant. "I suppose no other army in the world 
 crabs as much as you crackerjacks do." 
 
 "Glory be!" Sullivan exclaimed. "Is that all 
 ye know about the world ? I had two brothers at 
 the front and it's them you should know to have 
 an idea iv what grumblin' manes. When they 
 grumble in a letter the censor covers that which 
 is not to be read with black ink. And me broth- 
 ers' letters! Ye should see them. Each and 
 every one iv them was nothin' but a blot with the 
 writer's name to foot it." 
 
 "It's not 'arf a bad sign to 'ear fellers grum- 
 ble," said Stiff, speaking with the air of a man 
 who knew his fellows. "When a man doesn't 
 grouse it's a sign that all the pep's left him and 
 'e 'asn't no more kick in his body." 
 
 "I suppose that's true," said the top-sergeant. 
 "But it gets my goat to hear all the men crabbin' 
 at all hours of the day. When they get up they 
 crab, when they go to bed they crab, when they're 
 sent out on a fatigue, such as cuttin' wood or 
 sweepin' the streets, they crab. They forget that 
 our job at present is to make the country ready 
 for the men who are comin'. For one bay'net 
 here now there will be a thousand presently, and 
 when new men come they have to be fed and 
 clothed. Huts and barracks are being built, 
 railroads are being laid, hospitals are being fitted 
 
78 The Dough Boys 
 
 up. And all the tools, everything has to be 
 brought here. Guns, ammunition, lorries, wag- 
 gons, motor-ambulances, field kitchens, heavy 
 plant and material for repairing roads, food and 
 clothing and equipment, for thousands of men 
 have to run the gauntlet of Germany's subma- 
 rines and are arriving here with the regularity 
 of clockwork. And you guys crab as if nothin' 
 was being done. You'll all get to fight in a little 
 while, and I suppose when that comes along you'll 
 crab just the same." 
 
 "I will, anyway," said Sullivan. "I'm never 
 happy only when I have somethin' to complain 
 about." 
 
 At that moment a corporal came up to the top- 
 sergeant and handed him a written slip. He read 
 it then turned to the men of the party which was 
 going away to the work further up north. 
 
 "You men are to take twenty-four hours' ra- 
 tions with you," he said. "The mess-sergeant 
 will see you all about it. You are to leave your 
 rifles here, and we'll keep them until you return. 
 
 I myself will take you to V and hand you 
 
 over to Sergeant Somebody or another, who in 
 turn will hand you over to some one else and in 
 a few weeks' time, or, at most, at the end of a 
 couple of years, so you'll arrive at your destina- 
 tion. See and get as much tucker as you can 
 
The Detail 79 
 
 carry from Karney, for you'll find that you'll 
 need it all. Disperse!" 
 
 The men who were dismissed cleared off as 
 quickly as possible, making their way through 
 the streets and across the square which Burke 
 had crossed a few days before with a heart full 
 of anger and a mouth filled with the long re- 
 maining taste of soap-suds. Then he was in a 
 bad humour, but now he was quite happy. He 
 was going away with Stiff and Sullivan, away 
 up to the North and the fringe of war. Some- 
 thing would surely happen there. Probably he 
 would get a chance of fighting, of doing daring 
 deeds, of assaulting an enemy trench all on his 
 own. Then the Colonel of his new battalion 
 (thank heaven, Toughey would be far away then) 
 would take him out in front of the battalion and 
 compliment him on his bravery in the face of the 
 enemy. His feat would become the talk of the 
 papers away home in the States and everybody 
 would be talking about him. He would then 
 
 "I suppose it will be all pick and shovel work 
 where we're goin'," said Sullivan, breaking in on 
 the youngster's thoughts. "I am not one to mind 
 if it is, for I've a ready hand when it comes to 
 good hard grind in work that wants spine and 
 muscles. I wasn't a slow one with the spade 
 
80 The Dough Boys 
 
 when I was away home in me own townland iv 
 Kingarrow." 
 
 "Is that all you've got to think of now, Sulli- 
 van?" Burke asked. "Of working with a spade 
 and a shovel? If you like that sort of work you 
 might as well stay where you are and where you 
 can get plenty of spade-work to do." 
 
 "Aisy, me bucko, aisy," said Sullivan. "Is it 
 yerself that's thinkin' iv fighting' the Hineys 
 when ye get up to the top iv France!" 
 
 "There may be a chance," said Burke. "If 
 
 there is " He nodded his head emphatically 
 
 several times as if to conclude the sentence, then 
 he looked to his right and left and turned round 
 and looked behind him. 
 
 "Where has he gone?" he asked. "Is it after 
 that girl, Babette ?" 
 
 "Biddin' good-bye to her, I warrant," said Sul- 
 livan. "He's the wild fellow for the girls, that 
 same rascal. And be the look iv things our fel- 
 lows will clear the town iv the women and be 
 married on to them long afore the war is at an 
 end. And fine soncy girls they are, the most iv 
 them. And fine boys the Yanks are, too, to put 
 against that. Glory be! but there's no end iv 
 them here. Just look round ye !" 
 
 Both men came to a halt, and Sullivan, with 
 an all-embracing wave of his hand, swept the 
 
The Detail 81 
 
 whole outlook as it showed before the eyes of 
 Burke. The town of Mud-wallow, small and 
 compact, and situated at the bottom of a narrow 
 valley, was packed like a beehive. The market- 
 square, the lowest point of the town, was a slough 
 of water and mud when the weather was wet. 
 Now the frost which had lain there for the last 
 few days was thawing and the vehicles which 
 came through the place almost sank to the axles 
 in slush. From the square the long, crooked lanes 
 forked outwards like the spokes of an uncouth 
 peasant wagon, loitered upwards towards the hill 
 and came suddenly to a dead stop. The town 
 was a very old one, but at that moment there 
 were in it many things out of keeping and char- 
 acter with their surroundings. Two ages, one 
 ancient and the other modern, rubbed shoulders. 
 The military policeman in his broad-brimmed 
 campaigning hat, directed a woman, with a shawl 
 over her head and a creel of vegetables on her 
 back, across the street. He looked like a man 
 from a cinema show, the woman was one whom 
 Millet might have pictured. 
 
 The women assembled by the pond were busy 
 as usual with their eternal wash-boards, rinsing, 
 and wringing and scrubbing the clothes. As the 
 hour was four in the afternoon, the women had 
 to work hard to get their labour finished before 
 
82 The Dough Boys 
 
 darkness fell. Near them a little boy, whose sole 
 raiment was a striped petticoat and a mighty pair 
 of clogs, was hanging valiantly on a pump-han- 
 dle, while he filled a pitcher with water. An 
 American soldier, on seeing the boy, came for- 
 ward and worked the handle until the pitcher 
 was filled. Then he put the youngster on his 
 shoulder, and with the happy child in this posi- 
 tion, the soldier carried the pitcher home. And 
 round the corners of the streets, into the square 
 and out of it again, came motor-cars, ambulances 
 and limbers, guns, big and small, caterpillar 
 howitzers, light-horse vehicles, hand-carts and 
 the thousand and one other vehicles needed in the 
 prosecution of war. 
 
 At that moment, and probably for the firs: 
 time in their life, two onlookers, Sullivan and 
 Burke, realised the immense job of transporting 
 which confronted the new country who had al- 
 lied herself to the nations which were making 
 war against Germany. Here, in this ancient 
 town, all that was foreign to the place, the guns, 
 vehicles, and horses, the mighty impedimenta of 
 war, embracing so many parts, from sewing 
 needles to guns, had been shipped across thou- 
 sands of miles of sea, infested by submarines 
 and other death-dealing instruments of war 
 which Germany had called to her aid in her strug- 
 
The Detail 83 
 
 gle for world-dominance. Looking down on the 
 thronged square it was in some measure possible 
 to realise the magnitude of the task which Amer- 
 ica was carrying on so confidently and so effi- 
 ciently. 
 
 "There are our fellows coming back from the 
 day's work!" said Burke, as a party of men hove 
 into sight on the road opposite. They had been 
 out on manoeuvres and now came swinging down 
 the hill, singing at the tops of their voices. They 
 marched through the square, their trench helmets 
 atilt, their shoulders squared, their eyes alight. 
 The jerky ragtime song rang loudly through the 
 falling darkness: 
 
 "Good-bye, Broadway! Hello, France! 
 We're ten million strong. 
 Good-bye, sweethearts, wives and mothers — 
 It won't take us long. 
 Don't you worry while we're here, 
 It's you we're fighting for — 
 So good-bye, Broadway ! Hello, France ! 
 We're going to help you win the war !" 
 
 The order to march at attention was given as; 
 the company marched through the square. Rifles 
 were shouldered and the singing stopped. Noth- 
 ing could be heard now save the clatter of boots 
 on the cobbles. The men disappeared out of sight 
 yp a narrow street past a church which was built 
 
84 The Dough Boys 
 
 before America was discovered. Suddenly this 
 church found voice and the Angelus bell pealed 
 forth, calling the faithful to prayer. An old 
 woman rose from her wash-board by the pond, 
 wiped the suds from her hands by rubbing them 
 against her striped petticoat, crossed herself, and 
 said her prayers. From the distance came the 
 voice of an officer dismissing his men, who were, 
 no doubt, glad that the day's work was over, and 
 ready for supper. 
 
 "I hope they won't be forgettin' us when the 
 boys are goin' to the trenches," said Sullivan. "I 
 for one wouldn't like to be left behind." 
 
 "Neither would I," said Burke. "And what 
 about Stiff now ?" he added. "I suppose he'll be 
 talking to Babette." 
 
 "Of course he will, and who is the one that'll 
 fault a man for that same," said Sullivan with the 
 air of a philosopher. "It's in the blood iv the 
 young to be wild after the girls." 
 
 "What I want to know, is what kind of girl 
 is she," said Burke. "I would like to know what 
 kind of a fair one he has tackled on to." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 BAB£TT£ 
 
 AT that moment Stiff was in the Cafe Mou- 
 lin Rouge, the home of Babette. It was a 
 very old decrepit building which seemed on 
 the point of falling down into the street, as if 
 with the weariness of old age. Inside, it looked 
 more comfortable, with its long-necked stove, its 
 well-stocked bar and its tables which were al- 
 ways heavy with bottles of wine, red and white. 
 An old rickety billiard table stood in the centre 
 of the room, and this was piled high with all sorts 
 of household utensils, brooms, brushes, cups, 
 saucers, delft bowls, teapots and mugs. At the 
 present moment there were only two persons in 
 the cafe, Stiff, the American soldier, and Ba- 
 bette, the daughter of the good patronne, Ma- 
 dame Matelotte. 
 
 Babette was a charming little girl, with dark 
 appealing eyes, full of an ineffable charm, soft 
 wavy tresses and full red lips which looked as 
 alluring as a ripe peach. Her well-set shoul- 
 ders, her slim waist and rounded figure were very 
 
 85 
 
86 The Dough Boys 
 
 attractive, and the soldiers in the town clustered 
 round the door of the Cafe Moulin Rouge like 
 bees round a honey-pot. France is old in history 
 and attainments, but love is still older. Amer- 
 ica is young and full of the vitality of youth, but 
 love is even younger, and these two countries, 
 France and America, were drawn together by the 
 all-potent power of love, the love of Sammy for 
 the fair Babette. 
 
 This Babette was a very merry girl, overflow- 
 ing with youth and life, never dissatisfied, and 
 only wishing to enjoy the hours as they came, to 
 laugh and love and to be loved. And Stiff was 
 one of her worshippers. 
 
 The youngster was by nature a lover, a con- 
 stant victim to the wiles and allurements of the 
 fair. But, alas! he was also fickle, with that 
 fickleness which only youth can pardon. The 
 girls whom he had loved were many and the girls 
 whom he had forgotten were also quite a num- 
 ber. He had been in the town of Mud-wallow 
 for five months and he had lost his heart on five 
 occasions, regaining it again after a little, find- 
 ing it much the same when it returned to him 
 and as eager as ever to be lost again. Babette 
 was his last love, and he even thought of marry- 
 ing her. American soldiers were getting wed to 
 French girls, and why should he not do the same ? 
 
Babette 87 
 
 After the war he would take her away to the 
 States and then the two of them — Babette and 
 himself — could live in happiness for ever after 
 just like the prince and princess of the fairy tales. 
 
 Now that the cafe was practically deserted, 
 Stiff strove to press his attentions on the girl. 
 But the job was a difficult one, for the language 
 barrier was an unsurmountable difficulty. He 
 could not speak French and Babette could not 
 speak English. Both had a few catch phrases, 
 but what was the use of these when hearts, one 
 heart at least, were overflowing with the ancient 
 passion of love. 
 
 The boy ordered a drink, vin rouge, and looked 
 at the glass which the fair Babette poured out 
 for him. 
 
 "Combien?" he enquired. 
 
 "Onze sous," the girl replied. "Onze sous pour 
 vous." 
 
 "Pour moi?" he asked. "Vous tres bien, Ba- 
 bette," he added. 
 
 She laughed good-naturedly, and he held up 
 the glass of ruby liquid and looked at it. Then 
 he held it out to the girl. 
 
 "Pour vous," he said. "Pour petite Babette." 
 
 She looked at the wine and shrugged her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Non bon," she said. 
 
88 The Dough Boys 
 
 "Non, pour petite Babette," he protested, and 
 cursed inwardly because he could not get any fur- 
 ther with the conversation. "If I could only 
 speak the damned lingo," he thought "Why did 
 people speak in such different tongues?" He 
 placed the glass on the table and reached out and 
 caught the hand of the girl. He raised the hand, 
 and pressed the fingers in turn, beginning with 
 the little finger and finishing with the thumb. 
 
 "Joli," he said, in a husky voice. "Tres joli," 
 and catching the other hand he went through the 
 same operation with it, with this change of pro- 
 cedure. He began with the thumb and finished 
 with the little finger. Babette seemed to like the 
 soldier's attention, for she did not draw her hand 
 away. Having finished, the soldier looked at the 
 girl. 
 
 "Your hand, tres joli," he said. "Et vous 
 aussi tres joli." 
 
 And that moment Top-sergeant Casey saun- 
 tered into the cafe and, seeing Stiff at the coun- 
 ter, he swaggered across the room towards him, 
 his face taut with a tense truculent look. The 
 top-sergeant spent all his spare time in the Cafe 
 Moulin Rouge, and he had no love for wine, white 
 or red. 
 
 "You here, Stiff?" he said, and a note of re- 
 sentment was in his voice. Where Stiff was at 
 
Babette 89 
 
 that moment did not really matter to him. All 
 that the boy was ordered to do was to go and 
 gather rations from the mess-kitchen. When he 
 went was left entirely to the youngster's judg- 
 ment. All that was required was that the rations 
 should be in his possession on the next parade. 
 But Casey was annoyed, simply because Stiff's 
 hand at that moment was pressing the hand of 
 little Babette, the pretty bartender of the Cafe 
 Moulin Rouge. 
 
 "I'm 'ere," said Stiff. "Nuffink wrong in bein' 
 'ere, I 'ope." 
 
 "If you haven't your rations on the next pa- 
 rade, and if you're late for the same, you'll find 
 that you've struck the wrong streak," said Casey. 
 
 "I'll be there, orl right, sergeant," said Stiff. 
 "When are we leavin' this place?" 
 
 "Derned soon," said the sergeant. "You have 
 to travel all night." 
 
 "You're goin' wiv us, ain't yer ?" enquired the 
 imperturbable Stiff, still holding the girl's hand. 
 
 "Well, what the devil has that got to do with 
 you," Casey exploded, fixing a pair of angry eyes 
 first on the soldier and then on pretty Babette. 
 "You hike out of here and get your rations." 
 
 "Now?" asked Stiff. 
 
 "Now. At once," said Casey. "As it is, you're 
 late for what you've got to do." 
 
90 The Dough Boys 
 
 "Righto, sergeant," said Stiff. "It's an order, 
 so I slide. Au revoir, Babette." 
 
 "Partir?" she asked, looking at him. 
 
 "Oui. Partir tout suite," he said, then in a 
 tone which a knight errant might have used, he 
 added: "Pour le guerre, petite Babette." 
 
 His hand clasped hers. He drew her forward 
 a little and she came willingly. He thrust his 
 face forward and two pairs of lips almost met 
 across the counter. Casey turned his head away 
 as if afraid of gazing on something sacred. But 
 his ears heard it and his heart sank. There was 
 one kiss, then another and these were several 
 times repeated. Then the affectionate parting 
 came to an end, and Stiff went towards the door. 
 On the threshold he stood for a second and looked 
 back. 
 
 "Au revoir, Babette," he called. "I'll write to 
 you, and now I'll go and get my rations. Cos 
 why? The top-sergeant orders me to!" 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE JOURNEY 
 
 TOP-SERGEANT CASEY took the thirty 
 men who were leaving the battalion to the 
 railway station at the hour of midnight. 
 The train was due there at one o'clock, and the 
 hour of waiting was spent in the vain effort to get 
 a sleep by lying down on the stone platform. The 
 departure from the town lacked all the romance 
 which the men expected. Their thoughts dwelt 
 on a grand march through the streets, with the 
 Colonel riding at the head of the men and a band 
 playing them off at the station. But the real de- 
 parture lacked all glory. The men were ordered 
 to parade at the moment when their luckier mates 
 were getting under the blankets, when the mili- 
 tary police were clearing the cafes of the soldiers 
 and when the bugles were blowing "lights out" to 
 the weary men in their billets. 
 
 On parade the draft was arranged in front of 
 the Colonel who gave the men a short address, 
 exhorting them to do their work willingly, keep 
 away from temptations and behave as soldiers of 
 
 91 
 
92 The Dough Boys 
 
 the States were expected to behave in time of 
 war. Then he disappeared, and the men lay 
 down on the cold field, their heads resting on 
 their packs and they strove to snatch an hour of 
 sleep before they started their journey for the 
 station. It was Top-Sergeant Casey who next 
 disturbed the men in their sleep. He stood in 
 the midst of them and spoke. 
 
 "You guys lie where you are, but listen!" he 
 said. "You're going straight along to the sta- 
 tion in a moment and on the way there you are 
 not to make any noise. No singing or laughing, 
 mind. The people are all in bed and they will 
 be asleep when you pass through the streets, so 
 you're not to kick up a row. If I hear any-derned 
 guy whistling or singing, he'll find himself plumb 
 against no end of trouble." 
 
 "Will we have to take our boots off?" asked 
 a sleepy voice, as a head raised itself from the 
 pack on which it was resting. 
 
 "Sullivan again!" said Casey with a laugh. 
 "You're one of the derndest guys in the whole 
 shooting match." 
 
 When they arrived at the station the men lay 
 themselves down with the intention of again try- 
 ing to sleep. But the night was very cold and 
 when a man pillowed his head on his pack and en- 
 deavoured to sleep, he suddenly felt half-frozen. 
 
The Journey 93 
 
 The chill air nipped the face and ears, slid slily 
 down the necks and backs of the men, chilling 
 them to the bone. Now and again one would get 
 up, dance a few steps on the platform, and beat 
 his hands across his breast as he did so. 
 
 The train was due at one, and at a quarter to 
 two it was seen approaching, puffing a volume 
 of sparks into the air. The men found the places 
 allocated to them and went in. Sullivan and his 
 trio discovered themselves in a large covered-in 
 compartment, the floor of which was covered 
 with loose straw. From the roof hung an oil 
 lamp, and when this was lit it disclosed the in- 
 terior. 
 
 "Not arf a bad show," said Stiff, nestling down 
 in a corner and buttoning his overcoat up about 
 his ears. "I've got my own corner 'ere, and I'm 
 goin' to 'ave a bully sleep this trip." 
 
 No sooner were the men settled down than the 
 train started again as if to make up for the time 
 which it had already lost. 
 
 "It looks as if it's going to graze up a bit now," 
 said Burke, but even as he spoke the train came 
 to a dead stop, and then, as if afraid of the dark- 
 ness ahead, it puffed slowly back again. This 
 going forward and coming back again lasted for 
 a good ten minutes and by the end of that time 
 most of the men were sound asleep. 
 
94 The Dough Boys 
 
 In the early morning they were awake again 
 and taking stock of the country as seen from the 
 open door of their compartment. The morning 
 was beautifully clear and a bright sun rising over 
 the horizon melted the ice which had formed on 
 the pools, the ponds and the branches of the trees 
 during the night. Two petrol fires were alight 
 and on these the mess-tins of water were bub- 
 bling merrily. Coffee would presently be ready. 
 Chilled with the night cold, the men strove to 
 warm themselves by sparring or kicking balls of 
 paper across the floor of the waggon. Others 
 were at the doors looking out at the passing coun- 
 try, at the snug red-roofed villages and the farm- 
 houses in the fields. France was up and astir. 
 In the white fog of the level lands a woman could 
 be seen hard at work with a hoe. A peasant 
 bound for the wood to cut kindling went by in a 
 heavy cumbrous cart, a dog followed him, a thin 
 mongrel with its tail between its legs. Children 
 were out and probably on their way to school. 
 The sound of their happy laughter rang through 
 the clear morning air. 
 
 "Somebody says that France is never at home 
 bar when there is a war 'round them," said Sulli- 
 van. "And Glory be! it looks as if the same is 
 true!" 
 
 Two hours after breakfast the train arrived 
 
The Journey 95 
 
 at the town of V and here the men alighted. 
 
 The next train was due in two hours' time and 
 until then the soldiers had to sit still and await 
 its arrival. 
 
 "There's more iv us in this country than I 
 thought there would ever be," said Sullivan, as 
 he took his seat between Burke and Stiff on a 
 platform seat. "It's me that has been keepin' 
 me eye about ever since we've left Mud-wallow, 
 and be me own observations it appears that 
 France is brown with dough boys in khaki. 
 They're everywhere, in village and farmhouse 
 and on the roads and the fields, drillin', and 
 manooverin', just as if they mean business." 
 
 "Of course they mean business," said Burke. 
 "They haven't come over here to do nothing." 
 
 "We've been here for close on five months," 
 said Sullivan. "And it's neither hilt or hair iv a 
 Hiney I've seen in all the time." 
 
 "We'll see them yet, ole sport," said Stiff. 
 "Maybe when we'll get our eyes on them we'll not 
 like them arf as much." 
 
 "Give me an eye on one iv them through the 
 sights iv my rifle and the man that'll not like the 
 meetin' won't be me," said Sullivan. "Or be- 
 hind a bay'net is what I'd prefer. Elbow room is 
 all that I'll be lookin' for when I'm up again one 
 iv them with the cold steel." 
 
96 The Dough Boys 
 
 "'Ave no love for the 'Ineys, Sullivan?" Stiff 
 interrogated. 
 
 "As if I could !" said the Irishman. "And kin 
 iv me own lyin' cold in the graves iv France! 
 Comin' out here is what I've been lookin' for this 
 manys a day." 
 
 "But I don't think they are such bad fellows 
 really," said Burke. "All these accounts of 
 atrocities are stories that have been worked up 
 by the newspapers. The correspondents come 
 out here and pretend they get the dope from the 
 Belgian and French refugees and all the time they 
 make it up themselves." 
 
 "The Lusitania wasn't just thought iv," said 
 Sullivan. "Ye won't deny that. And it's a 
 crime cryin' to the eyes iv the Almighty God. 
 The women and children that was on that boat, 
 creatures that never done any harm to a soul! 
 And see what became iv them! Glory be! it 
 makes me heart sick to be kept out iv the ructions 
 for all this time. Sendin' us here and puttin' us 
 to clean the streets when there's so much other 
 work to do. And the blood's so hot in every man 
 iv us for the redness iv battle. But to hear a 
 man that should have more sense talkin' iv the 
 Germans as if they wor saints. . . . Glory be! 
 there's a newspaper man and I'll ask him." 
 
 He pointed at an officer who was coming 
 
The Journey 97 
 
 towards the spot where the three men were 
 seated. He was a correspondent attached to the 
 American Army and we have already met him at 
 dinner in the battalion Headquarters at Mud- 
 wallow. 
 
 "If you ask him anything 'e'll get on to your 
 neck and you'll never 'ear the bloomin' end o't," 
 said Stiff. "Always keep shy o' blokes in the 
 rags o' a lootenant. That's my way o' lookin' 
 at things." 
 
 "Every man to his own way iv thinkin'," said 
 Sullivan. "But I will ask him about the atroci- 
 ties the moment he's forninst me." 
 
 The officer approached and when he was op- 
 posite the three men, Sullivan got up from his 
 feet and saluted. 
 
 "Pardon me, sir," said the Irishman, "but we 
 were havin' a bit iv a discussion amongst our- 
 selves about these atrocities iv the Hineys. Some 
 iv us were sayin' that the papers tell the truth 
 about these atrocities and others iv us were sayin' 
 that the papers were tellin' lies. Now, sir, if 
 I'm not makin' too bould to ask you, could you 
 tell which iv us are right in what we've been say- 
 in'?" 
 
 "You're Irish, aren't you?" asked the corre- 
 spondent, smiling at Sullivan. 
 
 "Yes, sir. From the ould dart." 
 
98 The Dough Boys 
 
 "I couldn't mistake your brogue," said the cor- 
 respondent. "My mother was Irish. . . . But 
 about these atrocities. Some of you don't believe 
 the truth of the press reports, of course, and 
 some of you are inclined to trust them. I can 
 understand either the one who does not believe 
 or the one who does believe. If I may sit down 
 I'll tell you my own experiences." 
 
 The men seated made room for the correspond- 
 ent and he sat on the seat, Sullivan on his one 
 side and Burke and Stiff on the other. He 
 pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and 
 handed it round. 
 
 "I come from New York," he began. "My 
 'father was a Frenchman and my mother, as I 
 told you, an Irishwoman. I took to writing for 
 the papers when yet a lad and travelled all over 
 Europe on the hunt for the dope. I came to 
 France, of course, and whenever I had the time 
 to spare I went to the place where my father was 
 born. It was a red-roofed hamlet with an old 
 church and pumps on the streets. Something 
 like Mud-wallow only much smaller. When I 
 went there my grandfather was still alive, an 
 honest hard-working man, owner of his own 
 house and the few acres of land which surrounded 
 it. His whole life, day in and day out, was spent 
 in tending his little piece of soil, sowing crops 
 
The Journey 99 
 
 and planting trees. There was a little orchard 
 in front of his door and there the apple trees were 
 earlier in blossom than any in the neighbour- 
 hood. His two daughters lived with him, good 
 religious women, who never missed service at the 
 village church, and never forgot to say the An- 
 gelus when the bells rang at dusk. I always liked 
 to go to that village when it was possible to es- 
 cape from the hard work in Paris. 
 
 "But my grandfather died one day and in his 
 will he left the little farm and house and orchard 
 to me, though I had no use for it. My work lay 
 in other directions, and I handed the house, farm 
 and orchard over to my two aunts for their use 
 while they lived. But they died shortly after get- 
 ting the farm, the two of them in the same week, 
 leaving their little property behind them. I was 
 on the point of going down to see it in August, 
 '14, but then the war broke out and it was im- 
 possible for me to get away. My paper told me 
 to get on with some work and I had to take it up. 
 
 "The Germans swooped across the country and 
 captured the little village in which my forefathers 
 lived. For a long while it seemed impossible 
 for me to get back there until the war was at an 
 end, and I expected by that time that the whole 
 village would be laid to waste, the houses burned 
 and the little church razed to the ground. 
 
ioo The Dough Boys 
 
 "But unexpected things happen in war. Last 
 Spring I saw my village again. That was when 
 the Germans withdrew and the English soldiers 
 pursued them eastwards. I got permission to 
 follow in the wake of the British forces, and I 
 came to my little village just as the Germans were 
 chased out of it. 
 
 "It was then that I saw war as I had never 
 seen it before. The world's record for fiendish 
 ingenuity was established by those retreating 
 Germans. They left snares behind them to trap 
 the British; in abandoned dug-outs, empty 
 houses, deserted trenches, ruined churches and 
 desecrated shrines, slaughter traps were cun- 
 ningly concealed. A dug-out door would, if 
 opened, produce an explosion, a shovel appar- 
 ently thrown down in haste by a German worker 
 would detonate a charge if touched, stoves were 
 charged to blow up if a fire was lit in them, chairs 
 if sat on would explode a hidden mine, cases of 
 explosives were discovered hidden under the 
 streets and roads, harmless looking clocks were 
 timed to blow up small mines and various objects 
 casually lying about as if abandoned, were regu- 
 lar traps for killing men. 
 
 "I went to the church in the village. It was 
 practically intact, though a fire had been lit in 
 the sacristy with the intention of burning the 
 
The Journey ioi 
 
 whole building to the ground. But the Germans 
 had to fly before the fire could be got under way. 
 It was in that church that I saw the most filthy 
 evidence of Teuton culture. Here the German 
 soldiers had turned the altar steps into a latrine 
 and the very crucifix was wrenched from the al- 
 tar and flung into the filth. 
 
 "Outside was a hell of ruin. A number of 
 the houses were burned to the ground, and those 
 which remained were all plastered over with filth. 
 To sully the bed-clothes in a room seemed to be 
 a particular type of German humour. The tables 
 and chairs in the little cottages were mere foul- 
 ing posts for the German minions. I saw men, 
 soldiers of the British Army, who had been 
 fighting for years on the hellish fields of war, 
 turn physically sick when they saw some of the 
 things that had happened in that little village. 
 
 "I came to the cottage in which my grand- 
 father lived and died to find it burned to the 
 ground. And all the trees which he had planted 
 in the orchard were cut down. I went to the 
 churchyard where my kin were buried, and there 
 I found a trench dug right through my people's 
 graves, the very dead unearthed and their bones 
 scattered over the open. At the bottom of the 
 trench were two dead Germans who had been 
 apparently killed that morning. As I was look- 
 
102 The Dough Boys 
 
 ing on these, a British fatigue party came along 
 with spades and shovels. Their intention was to 
 bury the dead. 
 
 " 'Where are you going to bury these two?' I 
 asked the men, as I pointed at the dead. 
 
 " 'We'll just leave them where they are and 
 cover them up,' said a corporal, who had charge 
 of the party. 
 
 "That meant that they would be buried right 
 in my people's grave. They had burned my 
 church, felled my orchard, sullied the beds in the 
 village, desecrated the church in which my peo- 
 ple had said their prayers. And added to that, 
 these two Germans who had probably taken part 
 in the outrages, were to be buried in the grave 
 which held my own flesh. An officer came up 
 at that moment, and I spoke to him, telling him 
 my story. 
 
 " 'Don't bury these two Germans here,' he said 
 to the burying party, when I had finished my 
 story. 'Carry them out to the fields and bury 
 them there.' 
 
 "And they were carried away," said the cor- 
 respondent, "and I helped to bury them. Is it 
 not strange that up to that day I had no particu- 
 lar hatred for the Germans?" he added. "But 
 now. . . . Never while I'm alive will I speak a 
 civil word to, or press the hands of, a German." 
 
The Journey 103 
 
 Four hours later the train came to the sta- 
 tion, a passenger train. The thirty men entered 
 it, leaving Top-sergeant Casey alone on the plat- 
 form. A new sergeant had taken his place and 
 Casey was going back again to Mud-wallow. The 
 men were sorry at losing him, for he was a good 
 fellow, a hearty comrade, though a stern disci- 
 plinarian. Even Stiff was sorry, when he saw 
 Casey stay behind on the platform. 
 
 "I wonder at ye feelin' it so much the leavin' 
 iv Casey behind ye," said Sullivan, when the 
 train was on its way. "Ye' re one iv the funni- 
 est iv laddybucks, Stiff, moody as a hen that's 
 sittin' on eggs in the bottom of a bed." 
 
 "So ye really put the hens to bed in Ireland?" 
 asked Burke. 
 
 "Iv coorse we do," the Irishman replied. "We 
 trate them with the greatest cordiaility, pluck 
 them every mornin' and give them a bath and then 
 put them to bed in the evening. But that aside 
 for the present, for Stiff is in a bad mood. Are 
 ye rale sorry because Casey has left us on our 
 own ?" 
 
 "Damn Casey!" said the Cockney. "It's not 
 cos 'e's left us, but cos 'e's goin' back to Mud- 
 wallow. I don't trust 'im back there." 
 
 "I know why," said Burke with a smile. "It's 
 because of that girl Babette. Casey may be mak- 
 
104 The Dough Boys 
 
 ing love to her while he's there, and you have no 
 chance. Isn't that the ticket now?" 
 
 "On the wrong track !" blurted Stiff, blushing 
 a crimson which came through the tan which 
 years of roving had accumulated on his face. 
 And the two onlookers detected the blush, and 
 knew that Stiff feared that the love of Petite 
 Babette for him would not weather through the 
 attacks of Top-sergeant Casey. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE ENGINEERS 
 
 We don't know much about the drill 
 
 The dough boys have to do, 
 But we'll make the Kaiser clear the track, 
 
 And boys, we'll shoot her through. 
 We'll highball down the Aisne and Somme 
 
 And this is what we'll do, 
 Well ramble into Germany 
 
 With the old Red, White and Blue. 
 
 — Song of the Railroad Engineers. 
 
 IT can be seen everywhere from the lip of the 
 front line to the shady nooks of the outer- 
 most forest in the back-area, the red and 
 white hat-cord of the American Engineers. 
 Other soldiers have been doing their bit in vari- 
 ous ways, the infantryman running his whetted 
 bayonet through stuffed sacks on the parade 
 ground while dreaming of the real job that would 
 be his when he comes to the more serious busi- 
 ness of war, the gunner hurling shells at ene- 
 mies, imaginary or real, the flyer soaring a-wing, 
 over quiet fields that were free from the smoke 
 of the reeking Archies or over enemies' lines- 
 
 105 
 
106 The Dough Boys 
 
 where a thousand guns lay in wait to shatter his 
 aeroplane in mid-air, but all the time the man 
 with the castle on his collar had been working in 
 his quiet way with pick and wrench, slide-rule 
 and shovel, preparing the field for the Big Show 
 on which America has embarked. 
 
 France has now the biggest refrigerator in the 
 world. The Engineers fashioned it. France 
 has new docks, base hospitals and supply depots. 
 These were not in existence a year ago. The 
 Engineers built them. France has new railways, 
 miles on miles of glistening steel which stretch 
 across the country. The Engineers laid them. 
 New locomotives with their confident, reassuring 
 whistles have suddenly sprung into being as from 
 the wave of a magician's wand. The magicians 
 Were the American Engineers. 
 
 They were among the first to be organised 
 after America entered the war, these Engineer 
 units. They were composed of artificers and ar- 
 tisans, men suited for the various jobs which the 
 far-seeing Army officials deemed of imperative 
 and primary importance. They were at the 
 outset trained men, workers suitable for their 
 toil, and they were hustled overseas to take up 
 the work of war in the back areas of the battle 
 zone. Some laboured within the radius of the 
 enemy's guns, laying rails which now and again 
 
The Engineers 107 
 
 were blown to pieces as soon as they were placed 
 down, working in localities where death ex- 
 tracted a heavy toll of victims, sleeping in billets 
 open to attack from enemy aviators. And these 
 men worked valiantly at their jobs preparing the 
 way for those who followed after. 
 
 Others went to other localities. All corners 
 of France knew them. One regiment which 
 came in the Summer had the work of enlarging 
 a French port, bringing it up to American war- 
 time needs and added to this was a hundred other 
 secondary jobs, such as building a camp for them- 
 selves and enlarging it into a huge rest camp 
 capable of accommodating half a dozen incom- 
 ing regiments, putting down a thousand foot ar- 
 tesian well, laying out an aviation field and mod- 
 ernising and remodelling a building which was 
 fast becoming one of the most important Amer- 
 ican base hospitals. 
 
 The jobs which these men accomplished ne- 
 cessitated pile drivers, steam shovels, dredgers, 
 and work trains, and it is known that one regi- 
 ment completed a job in a few months of time 
 which would take an ordinary construction con- 
 tractor two years to perform. 
 
 The men were divided and sub-divided, scat- 
 tered over hamlets, villages and cities, billeted in 
 houses, or in some cases in camps in the open. 
 
io8 The Dough Boys 
 
 And their jobs were many, making cuts, ballast- 
 ing road-beds for trackage, unloading ties and 
 rails and laying them, and putting in tanks, or 
 coal bunkers. They did with all their might the 
 job which their hands found to do, and the cold 
 weather and rain and snow was seldom a retard- 
 ing element. They worked eight hours a day 
 on every day of the week, and this never included 
 the march out from quarters and back again. 
 
 The engineers generally rise to a reveille which 
 comes with the dawn, breakfast and get to their 
 work by daylight, but now and again there are 
 emergencies when they work in shifts and stick 
 to a job for a full day of twenty- four hours. 
 Happenings like these were of common occur- 
 rence in the unit to which the detachment from 
 X Division was bound. 
 
 They arrived at a station, the last on the jour- 
 ney, detrained, and waited on the platform for 
 further instructions. An officer appeared, a tall, 
 heavily built man of thirty or so with his red and 
 white hat cord frayed and covered with dry clay. 
 He had the look of a man who had seen things, a 
 man who had been in the heart of the job. He 
 looked at the men, then at the sergeant in charge 
 of the party. 
 
 "Thirty?" he enquired. 
 
 "Thirty, sir," was the reply. 
 
The Engineers 109 
 
 "Fit for a hike of six miles?" was the next en- 
 quiry. 
 
 "These rounders will buck at nothin'," said the 
 sergeant who knew nothing whatever of the men. 
 He met them the day before, took them over from 
 Sergeant Casey, hunched them into the train and 
 disappeared. Only now when they had arrived 
 at their rail-head did he speak of the dough boys 
 as if he had known them all his life. 
 
 "Six miles," said Sullivan in a whisper. 
 "That's six leagues if it's in me to have any 
 judgment iv measurement in this country. I've 
 seen us down at Mud-wallow goin' on a ten mile 
 hike and when we had done twelve iv them I've 
 seen a Loot come up and say, 'Well, boys, we're 
 well started now.' " 
 
 "And I've a blister on my bloomin' 'eel," whis- 
 pered Stiff. "And blimey! it's not arf givin' me 
 
 jyp" 
 
 "My field-shoes are catching my toes like a 
 vice," said Burke, shuffling uneasily in line as if 
 trying to get any easy position for each of his 
 ten toes. 
 
 They marched off singing while going through 
 the town to which they had come and grumbling 
 a little when they had got out of it. Grumbling 
 is a soldiers' privilege and all Armies make use 
 of the privilege and the dough boys rise to a high 
 
no The Dough Boys 
 
 eminence in the art of grumbling. With them 
 it is not alone a habit; it is a gift. 
 
 But after a while they accommodated them- 
 selves to the route and it was one full of interest. 
 They were very near the scene of war and from 
 the distance came the sound of guns. Fighting 
 was taking place ten or twelve miles away and 
 the detachment was going in the direction of the 
 fighting. They would be billeted some four or 
 five miles distant from the scene of war. And 
 the hearts of the soldiers beat high as they 
 marched. They felt elated as they thought of 
 the times in front of them. Probably they would 
 see some fighting before being recalled to X Divi- 
 sion, the division which would keep busy clean- 
 ing the back* area while other men went out to 
 do the fighting. 
 
 The road which they took was a long cobbled 
 one lined with trees, some of which were lac- 
 erated as if with knives. When they looked 
 ahead the soldiers could see a mass of men march- 
 ing towards them, a party of soldiers coming 
 back from battle probably. 
 
 Suddenly the Engineer officer stepped out from 
 the front of the party, halted by the side of the 
 road and looked at his squad. 
 
 "March like soldiers, you fellows," he shouted. 
 "Here's a British regiment out of the trenches 
 
The Engineers in 
 
 coming along. Show them that there's some 
 kick in you!" 
 
 Saying these words he rushed back to his place 
 again. 
 
 Stiff straightened his back, threw out his chest 
 and lit a cigarette. God ! how the blister on his 
 heel rebelled against the youngster's military 
 bearing! How it would nag him when the Brit- 
 ishers passed by! And Burke's toes protested 
 with vehemence against the strain of marching 
 with such alert bearing. They huddled together 
 under toe-caps which seemed to press down on 
 them like hydraulic hammers. But what mat- 
 tered these things for the present moment when 
 the two boys were fully determined to keep up 
 the honour of their detail no matter what it cost 
 them! 
 
 The battalion was a kilted one, dour men with 
 eyes hard-set and heavy hanging jaws which had 
 hot known a razor for many days. Their shoul- 
 ders were bent forward as if their packs were 
 crushing them to the ground, their ammunition 
 boots, their hose, their kilts and jackets were 
 splashed and coated with clay. Their helmets 
 hung down over their eyes as if the men's hands 
 had not the strength to place them at a correct 
 poise. The rifles which they carried were held 
 at all angles and the men looked so weary, so 
 
112 The Dough Boys 
 
 unutterably weary. Not a word, not even a look 
 did they bestow on the Americans. Probably 
 they did not even notice them, for weariness 
 when it reaches a certain pitch retires within it- 
 self and seeks a certain solace in moody and 
 apathetic isolation. 
 
 "Begorrah ! they look as if they had been right 
 in the ructions," said Sullivan, when the kilted 
 regiment had passed. "And they're the fine men, 
 the same boyos. Fighters all iv them, and divils 
 for the game. There's three or four men from 
 me own townland with the Kilties." 
 
 "In a Scottish regiment?" asked Burke with 
 some surprise. "I thought it was only Scotsmen 
 who were allowed in a regiment like the one that 
 passed." 
 
 "Ah! me boy, there's many a thing in this 
 world that ye know nothin' about," said Sullivan. 
 "One thing ye'll see here and that is that there's 
 many an Irish knee under the Scottish kilt." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 GUSTAVO 
 
 THE village — "Bomb-dump" it was named 
 by the British soldiers who often billeted 
 there — in which the Railway Engineers 
 had their Headquarters, was a very old one, and 
 one that might have been considered slow and 
 backward if it existed in the days of Christopher 
 Columbus as it exists now. The place had an 
 aspect of weariness and doting age. Added to 
 that was its gradual crumbling to pieces under the 
 cursory fire of the German artillery. About four 
 miles distant from the lines it came in for regu- 
 lar castigation and every day shells could be heard 
 bursting in the streets and particularly in the lo- 
 cality of the church. The church stood at the 
 eastern corner of the village and offered a splen- 
 did target for the enemy gunners. It was an ob- 
 jective of which they took every advantage, straf- 
 ing it whenever they felt in the mood. It had 
 been hit several times, its spire was blown down 
 and one shell which had crashed through the roof 
 had blown the altar to pieces. Worship of God 
 
 "3 
 
114 The Dough Boys 
 
 was held there no more, and the peasantry, when 
 desirous of attending the Sacrifice of the Mass, 
 went to a church in a village three miles away. 
 But though they left the village for a time, now 
 and again, to fulfil their duties as Christians, they 
 always came back again when the service was at 
 an end. 
 
 The people were rooted to the village in which 
 they were born and bred, and here they remained, 
 despite the daily shelling of the place. It was 
 their home and they refused to seek any other. 
 Some day peace would come and then France, vic- 
 torious, would be very proud of the people who 
 stuck to their homes and worked so hard repair- 
 ing their country during the ravages of war. In 
 the back area are deeds of bravery, endurance 
 and fortitude, before which the bravery of the 
 soldiers in the trenches pale into insignificance. 
 France may well be proud of her fighting sons, 
 but how much more reason has she to be proud 
 of her daughters, the women who stick to their 
 work and their homes while the thunder of war 
 riots over the roofs which cover them ! 
 
 The trio, Sullivan, Burke and Stiff, found 
 themselves billeted in a cafe, the Cafe Bienvenu, 
 an old, derelict building with its walls scarred 
 by shrapnel and its roof shattered by the guns 
 of war. But they found the place to their liking, 
 
Gustave 115 
 
 for it was one of the best billets in the village. 
 The quiet of the cafe, the kindliness of the Pa- 
 tronne, a middle aged woman whose husband had 
 been killed in the battle of Verdun, and the 
 cheery ways of the patronne's only child, Gus- 
 tave, a boy of seven, appealed to the bar-tender 
 from Kelly's Saloon, the young American who 
 was a lover of poetry, and who was only a mere 
 boy, and the Cockney rover who had roamed 
 through most parts of the world before he took 
 up the great work of warfare. Mamma Gaucher, 
 the patronne, was a little lady in a mutch cap and 
 black apron, with dark eyes surrounded by 
 wrinkles which spread outwards like an open fan. 
 She was a very hard worker, always on her feet 
 and busy with some job or another. Even at 
 night, when the visitors to the cafe — most of 
 whom were soldiers from every point of the 
 world — went away to their various billets, the 
 good woman would sit down and knit socks for 
 friends of her own who were in the trenches. 
 She was as busy as an ant, "a wife without one 
 lazy bone in her body," as Sullivan remarked 
 when he had known her for a few days. 
 
 The men liked the change after the life at Mud- 
 wallow. Here, although they were not engaged 
 in the hard work of killing, counter-attacking, 
 and firing through loop-holes at the enemy, still 
 
n6 The Dough Boys 
 
 they were nearer the red fringe of war than they 
 had ever been before. In the early morning they 
 went out from their billets, got into line on the 
 village square, trooped to breakfast, got their 
 equipment and tools and marched off to their 
 work. They were sent to the job of laying and 
 repairing lines behind the British front, filling 
 shell-holes, making cuts and bridges, and the hun- 
 dred and one other jobs which must be performed 
 in the back area. 
 
 The work was arduous and trying, for soldiers 
 who work with pick and shovel, hammer and bar- 
 row have probably the most thankless job of the 
 many jobs which make for the efficiency of the 
 fighting forces. Not for them is that fighting 
 exhilaration which comes to soldiers as they 
 sweep forward on the neck of the enemy. Then 
 men, purged of fear and even of thought, are no 
 longer conscious of the weakness and quivering 
 of the flesh. They become one great resistless 
 purpose, able and ready to accomplish any feat. 
 But war, as exemplified in the mundane occupa- 
 tions of laying rails or digging saps is a wholly 
 different matter. The workers are struck by the 
 splinters of high explosives and cannot strike 
 back, they are killed and cannot have revenge. 
 
 "It is interesting here, I admit," said Burke 
 on the evening of the third day, as he was march- 
 
Gustave 117 
 
 ing with his mates back to his billet. "But noth- 
 ing happens on our show. We never see any- 
 thing and by the look of it we never will. Do 
 you think that our regiment will ever send for 
 us again?" 
 
 "Blimey ! we'll be called back one day soon, I 
 bet," said Stiff. "Wait till the colonel gets or- 
 ders to hike his regiment into the doin's and then 
 'e'll send for us and off we slide from here. But 
 if we had a scrap fore we go back, it wouldn't 
 'arf buck us up !" 
 
 "Glory be! but it may come any day now!" 
 said the philosophic Sullivan. "If the Hineys 
 broke through up here we might get a chance iv 
 lettin' them know what we can do." 
 
 "You pray for a fight every night, don't yer ?" 
 asked Stiff, turning to Sullivan. 
 
 "Maybe I do," said the Irishman simply. 
 "And I might be prayin' for things far, far worse 
 than a fight. It's the grand job gettin' at the 
 laddybucks if all accounts bees true. Me brother 
 tells iv fights that he had, it's Fergus that I mane, 
 him that went out iv the job at Ypres, and from 
 his account there's great glory in the job. He 
 wouldn't change his place in the firin' line for an 
 estate iv broad acres and a crock iv gold, he said 
 at the time. Ah ! but it's the fine boy that he was, 
 
n8 The Dough Boys 
 
 supple as an eel and lissome as a sally rod. Poor 
 boy ! may he rest in peace." 
 
 There was consternation in the cafe that eve- 
 ning when the three men arrived there. Little 
 Gustave was missing. He had gone out earlier 
 in the afternoon and he had not returned. His 
 mother was in great suspense, for the Germans 
 were shelling the village and striking many of 
 the houses, gouging bits from the walls and shat- 
 tering the tiles. 
 
 "Gustave! Gustave! Gust-a-ave! Where is 
 that little rascal hiding?" 
 
 Madame Gaucher stood at the door of the inn, 
 shouting up the street, and now and again dodg- 
 ing behind the door of her home when a shell 
 burst near at hand and sent the cobbles flying all 
 over the ruined street. But the Cafe Bienvenu 
 afforded very little shelter. In the first place the 
 roof was almost gone and in the second place the 
 very cellar, deep and massive though it was, could 
 not stand the impact of the monster projectiles 
 which the Germans were sending across. Still, 
 though this shelling was of daily occurrence, 
 Madame Gaucher persisted in remaining in the 
 village, braving any danger rather than leave the 
 place in which she had been born and bred. 
 
 "Gustave !" she called again, but there was no 
 answer. 
 
Gustave 119 
 
 "Has the little rascal run away again ?" asked 
 Sullivan as he unslung his pack in the doorway. 
 "He is always runnin' away," said a British sol- 
 dier who was billeted next door. "I saw him a 
 minute ago out on the street. He was looking 
 for nosecaps." 
 
 "That will be the death of him," said the 
 woman. "Ah ! here he comes," she shouted, as a 
 little boy of seven made his appearance out from 
 one of the side alleys. The youngster's face was 
 very dirty and never seemed to have known the 
 offices of a towel. He was barefooted, but wore 
 a pair of khaki puttees, a khaki tunic that almost 
 reached his knees, and a Glengarry bonnet on 
 which was pinned the badge of the Cameron 
 Highlanders. In one hand he carried the per- 
 cussion cap of a large shell. 
 
 The child glanced at his mother, then went up 
 to Sullivan, the big Irishman, who loved the boy. 
 Little Gustave was a great friend of his and often 
 marched to an imaginary battle on the Irishman's 
 back. 
 
 "Souvenir, Toolivan," said the child. "Sou- 
 venir pour vous. Cinq sous." He held the per- 
 cussion cap in his miry hand and reached it 
 towards the Irishman. 
 
 "You're a bad boy," said Sullivan, raising a 
 warning finger. "Gustave, garcong no bong. 
 
120 The Dough Boys 
 
 One day obus grand hit you and then you mort. 
 That's wot will 'appen to you, Gustave." 
 
 Sullivan was rapidly mastering the French' 
 language. 
 
 "Souvenir pour vous," repeated the child, then 
 adding as an afterthought: "Bon souvenir; cinq 
 sous." 
 
 "I don't want a souvenir," said Sullivan. "You 
 run down to the cellar and hide yourself." 
 
 "Souvenir, cinq sous," said the child. 
 
 "Ye damned little vagabone, ye!" said the 
 Irishman, catching the youngster in his arms and 
 taking him into the cafe. Bringing him down- 
 stairs he placed him on the floor of the cellar and, 
 being a lover of children, kissed the child on the 
 face, just between the eyes. This was the clean- 
 est spot. 
 
 "Now, Gustave, ye've got to stay here, ici," said 
 Sullivan in Anglo-French. "Voo not go out on 
 the street — Voo — again to-day. Do ye hear 
 that?" 
 
 "Souvenir, cinq sous," was all the child's reply 
 as he scraped the dust from the percussion cap 
 with a stubby finger. 
 
 Sullivan kissed the child again on the same 
 spot between the eyes and went upstairs. An 
 hour later, as darkness was falling, he looked out 
 of the window to see Gustave on the street, straf- 
 
Gustave 121 
 
 ing the village. Standing on the pavement, the 
 child would raise his hand and fling the souvenir 
 percussion cap from him as far as his strength 
 would allow. As it travelled through the air the 
 boy would puff out his cheeks until his nose sunk 
 out of sight and give an imitation of the sound 
 made by a shell in flight. When the nosecap 
 dropped to the ground he would fling himself flat 
 to avoid the imaginary splinters. For a second 
 he would lie there in make-believe terror, then 
 he would get up, rush forward, seize the percus- 
 sion cap and start the whole performance over 
 again. Never had the village been strafed with 
 such effect, never had Gustave enjoyed a straf- 
 ing so much, and never had he had such an audi- 
 ence. A whole crowd of soldiers, American, 
 British and French came out to watch the child, 
 little Gustave with his Glengarry bonnet, his big 
 tunic and his souvenir percussion cap. The men 
 made a collection, which amounted in all to three 
 francs, bought the nosecap from the child, and 
 as they had no particular use for it they gave it 
 back to him again. 
 
 " 'Twas the only thing to be done," said Sul- 
 livan, first to suggest the collection, when re- 
 counting the incident later. "There's not many 
 kiddies left in this place and iv them as is left 
 there is none like Gustave, the wee vagabone !" 
 
122 The Dough Boys 
 
 From that day forward Gustave was the pet of 
 the American Engineers. When parcels came 
 from overseas part of the luxuries which they 
 contained were laid aside for Gustave, and when 
 a nosecap was discovered near the trenches it 
 was taken back by the men to Gustave. Various 
 little souvenirs came his way: badges, buttons, 
 hat-cords, cigarette pictures, and many other 
 odds and ends. Once indeed the boy got a real 
 wrist watch which was Burke's gift. The watch 
 had only one hand, but the hand moved when the 
 watch was shaken. Another of Gustave's treas- 
 ured finds was a clasp-knife with a murderous 
 looking blade. This was a present from Stiff and 
 the casualties among the imaginary Huns which 
 Gustave routed daily, when armed with this clasp- 
 knife, were beyond calculation. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 ANOTHER MAN'S DUDS 
 
 THE days went by and much labour had 
 been performed by the Engineers behind 
 the British lines. Great fighting was in 
 progress at the present moment up near Cam- 
 brai. The British had attacked the Germans one 
 morning, creeping with their tanks at dawn up 
 to the Hindenburg line and across it. And now 
 when men came back for a rest to the village in 
 which the Engineers were stationed they spoke 
 of Bourlon Wood and Fontaine Notre Dame ; of 
 fighting, mad and bitter; of killing and maiming; 
 of shells bursting in their thousands over a dev- 
 astated country; of fighting with the cold steels 
 through whole nights of terror; of gas shells 
 drenching the scene of war with a rain and va- 
 pour of death. 
 
 One man, he was an Irishman from the county 
 in which Sullivan was born, sat in the cafe one 
 night, at the hour when little Gustave was in his 
 bed in the cellar and when Madame Gaucher 
 had taken up her needles to continue the knitting 
 
 123 
 
124 The Dough Boys 
 
 of a sock at the point where she had left it off 
 the evening before. This man, the story-teller, 
 had been in Bourlon Wood and Fontaine Notre 
 Dame, and had lived in the hell of war for a full 
 seven days. Now that he was back from the 
 fighting he had much to say about it. With his 
 pipe in his mouth, he sat near the stove in the 
 cafe and spoke: 
 
 "Don't talk to me iv war and the horrors iv 
 war again after Bourlon, and the fightin' that 
 was a couple iv days late past up there," said the 
 Irishman. "It was hell with the lid off, and us 
 in the middle iv the furnace. Talk about Loos 
 or Mons or the Somme or, for the matter iv that, 
 any other ruction iv these days or the days that 
 was. They're as nothin' compared to the fightin' 
 at Bourlon. How we stood it bates me to know, 
 bates me entirely. 
 
 "Men like meself that have a kind iv a likin' 
 for the job were a-thremble all the time. It was 
 up to us to bear up and set an example, but the 
 youngsters new out were the ones that did set the 
 example to all iv us, the men iv the last drafts, 
 the young ones whose lips were as yet wet with 
 their mother's milk.. They kept up smilin' all the 
 time, singin' a song or two to cheer themselves 
 as well as others. We, the old ones, hard iv the 
 horn and old to the ructions could do nothin' bet- 
 
Another Man's Duds 125 
 
 ter than that, and in a fight we weren't a bit 
 ahead iv the youngsters. Begorrah, if every man 
 in the Army got the Victoria Cross every time 
 he earned it, we'd have a whole division iv work- 
 ers busy day and night making the decorations. 
 
 "It was murder all along, pure red, roaring 
 murder. Goin' forward we were be night, lyin' 
 down for a while and then goin' forward again, 
 and it so cold. Hip-deep in the muck we were 
 so many times and our fingers so chilled that we 
 had never full purchase iv our trigger fingers. 
 Then we got into that wood iv perdition and we 
 stuck to our job there for centuries. The news- 
 papers say that we held on like men for days, or 
 if they haven't said so they will say it. It's all 
 right for them, out and away from the job to talk 
 iv it in days, but them that was in it, it wasn't 
 days. It was centuries. 
 
 "Gas was comin' over our heads and shells were 
 sweepin' through us, the wood was slashed to 
 pieces like sheaves iv corn under the flail, the 
 ground was ploughed up and turned over. 'Twas 
 a dirty black vomit with the shells wallowin' in 
 it. And men were gettin' knocked out, and 
 stretcher-bearers were tryin' to take the wounded 
 away and maybe gettin' killed or wounded them- 
 selves. It went on mornin' and noon and night, 
 and when ye thought at times that they had 
 
126 The Dough Boys 
 
 reached the top iv their bent with the shellin', ye 
 found afterwards that they were only beginnin'. 
 
 "And through it all the boys iv ours, heroes 
 they are every man iv them, were tryin' to look 
 as if they were enjoyin' the thing. God! it was 
 a poor kind iv enjoyment. And they didn't en- 
 joy it ; they stuck it, which was more to the point. 
 I saw young fellows, wee cubs that never knew 
 the feel iv a razor on their chins, and they were 
 pretendin' that in all their life they never had as 
 much fun anywhere as in Bourlon Wood. But 
 they didn't like it, all the same. 
 
 "Mother iv God! I saw one laddybuck, a lis- 
 some slip iv a fellow, laughin' at the shells when 
 the horror iv hell was about him, and me heart 
 was filled with wonder at him. But when he got 
 out iv it and came back to his billet the laugh 
 left him, and he broke and cried like a child that's 
 left its lone in a dark room. That, after the way 
 that he held his head up when in the thick iv it. 
 'Twas only when he broke down that I saw what 
 a man he was. A sticker, that boy! Glory iv 
 Heaven, what a sticker! 
 
 "And I saw another youngster, and before the 
 fightin' began he was as white as a sheet. Fright- 
 ened, he was, feared iv his skin in the job. But 
 when the row started he was a different man. He 
 was one iv the first across the top and one iv the 
 
Another Man's Duds 127 
 
 first in the attack. I saw him get hit with a bul- 
 let over the heart, and when he fell I ran up to 
 help him. He was cryin' fit to break his heart. 
 'Ye'll be all right, me man,' I says, with the view 
 to give him a bit iv comfort. 'Ye'll get back all 
 right and ye'll be at home, come the morrow.' 
 'It's not the pain iv bein' hit that troubles me,' 
 says he, 'it's hell not to be with the boys right 
 through it !' 
 
 "And all the men were like that, even in the 
 damnedest hour," said the soldier. "It's heart- 
 breakin', the war, but what I marvel at most in 
 it is the way that the boys hold out stickin' to the 
 end and holdin' on be the skin iv their teeth. 
 Holdin' on to the end ... to the end !" 
 
 It was on the following evening when the work 
 of the day had been completed that big Murtagh 
 Sullivan, his campaigning hat pulled down over 
 his eyes, his face blue where the razor had made 
 its daily round, his big blue eyes heavy with a 
 far-away look, and his cheeks bulging out over 
 the chew of American plug which he held in the 
 corner of his mouth, made his way out from the 
 cafe in which he had left his two mates playing 
 with little Gustave, and strode with a swagger- 
 ing gait along the ragged street of the village. 
 
 Darkness had fallen, and for the Engineers the 
 labour of the day was at an end. It was now 
 
128 The Dough Boys 
 
 the hour when men from the New Republic 
 made love to the girls of the Old, when clean- 
 shaven lips sunk into the heady brew which the 
 few cafes afforded, when men waited in queues 
 for their suppers, and when men who had 
 seen service on the Mexican Borders sat round 
 the fires of the billets, and talked of strange sights 
 and stranger happenings which they had seen 
 and known in their campaigning days. But big 
 Murtagh Sullivan had no heart for the life of the 
 village that evening. He was a man heavy of 
 heart, for the story of the Irish soldier, the eve- 
 ning gone, had made a very strong impression on 
 his mind and bred a thirst in his soul which no 
 foaming glass in a cafe could assuage. The thirst 
 for adventure, for fighting, welled up in his be- 
 ing, and once or twice he stopped short in his 
 walk and listened to the sound of guns in the 
 distance. 
 
 "And it's up there that I would be, but here I 
 am," he said, addressing the fighters who were 
 making great fight away in the locality in which 
 the guns were booming. "That's the job that's 
 cut out for me, and here I am, a dustman or a 
 scavenger, cleanin' out holes with me shovel just 
 the same as if I was on me pratee patch away 
 home in me own townland. Some men have all 
 the fun and I have none at all. And me two 
 
Another Man's Duds 129 
 
 brothers, Fergus and Micky, are maybe lookin' 
 down at me this minit thinkin' little iv me be- 
 cause I am not in the fightin' where so many of 
 me countrymen are givin' up their lives." 
 
 He walked a hundred yards, then two hundred, 
 and eventually he found himself at the end of the 
 long straggling village in which he was living. 
 
 "I suppose I will have to go back now and get 
 to bed and have a sleep till the mornin','' he said. 
 "Then on the morrow's morn I will go out with 
 me mates and dig and hammer again just the 
 same as the day. Glory be! but it's not the life 
 that I was cut out for at all, at all. Nothin' ever 
 happens in this mud-wallow." 
 
 But something did happen at that very mo- 
 ment. He was standing opposite the door of the 
 last house in the village, and a man opened the 
 door and stepped out into the street. The man 
 was a French soldier, probably a man just back 
 from the fighting in the trenches of war. As this 
 man stepped out from the lighted interior of the 
 house into the darkness he missed his footing, 
 tripped and fell into the gutter. The American 
 bent down, helped the man to his feet, and as- 
 sisted him indoors. 
 
 He was a tall, well-built man with a heavy 
 moustache and dark, kindly eyes, a man who had 
 been fighting since the commencement of the war. 
 
130 The Dough Boys 
 
 He sat down in a chair near the stove, and beck- 
 oned to his wife, a stout young woman, with soft 
 red cheeks and dark hair. Probably the pair had 
 been married quite recently. The woman, who 
 was engaged washing dishes at a table in the cor- 
 ner of the room, came across to her husband. 
 The man put his arm round her waist, and with 
 his free hand pointed at Sullivan. 
 
 "A good soldier," he said in French, and then 
 launched forth into a long story which the Amer- 
 ican guessed was an account of the incident wind 
 had just taken place outside. 
 
 "Merci bien," said the woman when the ac 
 count came to an end, and she smiled at Sullivan. 
 
 "Don't mention it, Madame," said the Irish- 
 man. "What else could I do, for he's an ally." 
 
 With these words he turned to go out, but the 
 woman rushed after him and held him by the 
 arm. 
 
 "No, no," she said. "Restez, m'sieur, for a lit- 
 tle." 
 
 Still catching his arm she motioned Sullivan 
 to a chair and indicated that she wished him to 
 be seated. When this request had been complied 
 with, the woman went to the dresser which stood 
 in a corner and brought down a bottle and two 
 glasses which stood on one of the shelves. 
 
Another Man's Duds 131 
 
 She filled the glasses, handed one to Sullivan, 
 and another to her husband. 
 
 "Where's your glass, Madame?" Sullivan en- 
 quired, holding his own wine to his lips, making 
 a mock pretence of drinking it, and at the same 
 time pointing to the woman. She understood, 
 and a third glass made its appearance. The gal- 
 lant Sullivan seized the bottle, and poured out the 
 woman's portion with his own hand. The three 
 drank together, clinking glasses. It was then that 
 the Frenchman managed to convey the idea to 
 his guest that he wished to thank him for the 
 kindly help given a short time ago. This was ac- 
 complished by so many gestures that Sullivan was 
 diverted, and he clinked a freshly filled glass 
 against the Frenchman's, which was also refilled, 
 and the two drank with much smacking of lips 
 and shaking of hands. The woman left them 
 and returned to the washing of the dishes. 
 
 "Vin bong," said Sullivan, whose tongue was 
 loosened at the third glass. 
 
 "Tres bon," said the Frenchman. 
 
 "Tres bong," Sullivan acquiesced. 
 
 "Soldat bon," said the Frenchman, indicating 
 Sullivan with his thumb. 
 
 "French solat tres bong," said Sullivan, re- 
 turning the compliment, and pointing at one par- 
 
132 The Dough Boys 
 
 ticular French soldier, the man who was sitting 
 on the chair nursing a sprained leg. 
 
 Another bottle made its appearance on the 
 table, and the bottle was opened. The bartender 
 from Kelly's Saloon was a judge of strong wa- 
 ters, and the present wine was the best that he 
 had ever tasted. At the first sip from each suc- 
 cessive glass he smacked his lips and murmured, 
 "Tres bong, Misoor, tres bong," and the French- 
 man would reply to this with "Soldat tres bon," 
 and point to the leg which he was nursing. The 
 second bottle was finished that night and a third 
 made its appearance. After this was placed on 
 the table, the soldier's wife disappeared from the 
 room. Whether she went outside or up to her 
 bedroom Sullivan could not remember. Whether 
 she said good-night or not was another matter of 
 which he had no definite remembrance. That the 
 two men tried on one another's uniform is 
 vouched for, not because they were seen trying 
 on these different articles of apparel, but because, 
 when Sullivan returned to his billet at three 
 o'clock in the morning, he was attired in the uni- 
 form of a Republic not his own. It must have 
 been that of the French soldier who had met with 
 the accident on the night before, for the soldier 
 was a big strong man as broad of chest and as 
 sturdy of frame as the Irishman himself. Sul- 
 
Another Man's Duds 133 
 
 livan's two mates saw the red-haired Irishman 
 returning to his billet at three in the morning 
 staggering a little as he walked. He swung up 
 to the Cafe Bienvenu singing a song which in his 
 young days he had often heard sung by the fire- 
 side of Kingarrow, his own townland in the 
 County of Mayo : 
 
 "It's a townland iv plenty and them that lives there, 
 Through the whole iv their days they will never go bare, 
 And the childer that's born do laugh with glee 
 When they hear that they've landed in Cagharacree, 
 And the girls are so pretty that " 
 
 "Where the bloomin' 'ell 'ave yer been all this 
 time, Sullivan?" 
 
 "That the saints, people say 
 Come down for to listen " 
 
 "Gawd! Sullivan, the big Irishman, is blind 
 drunk!" 
 
 "Come down for to listen to them when they pray.'' 
 
 "Sullivan! For Gawd's sake try and talk 
 bloomin' sense, and don't make a fool o' yerself !" 
 
 It was then that Sullivan became conscious of 
 the presence of the Cockney. The youngster was 
 standing by his side shaking him as if trying to 
 
134 The Dough Boys 
 
 bring the man to his senses. Burke was also 
 shaking the big giant, and between them the two 
 youngsters gradually brought the man to realise 
 his position. 
 
 "Time ye two were in bed," he articulated. 
 "Under the blankets with the two iv yees, ye 
 limbs iv perdition. The top-sergeant will get 
 hoult iv yees stravaigin' about here at this hour 
 iv the night and it will be the jug for yees as well 
 as for me, too." 
 
 "Where have you struck this get-up?" asked 
 Burke, withdrawing a distance and studying Sul- 
 livan's uniform. 
 
 "A good get-up," Sullivan stammered. "Tres 
 bon, misoor, tres bong. Looks as if it was cut 
 for me. I'll join the French Army, misoor." 
 
 "Wot's 'e ravin' about?" asked Stiff. " 'E's 
 arf mad and we'll be off from this 'ole in ten min- 
 utes' time. Sullivan," he said, catching the Irish- 
 man by the shoulder and shaking him. "Listen 
 to me. We've got to go up to our work." 
 
 "Right now," said Burke. 
 
 "But we haven't gone to bed yet," said the 
 Irishman. "We can't go to work till we have a 
 bit iv a sleep. Frenchman tres bon . . . Vin 
 tres bon." 
 
 "Oh, damn your bloomin' tres bong !" said Stiff, 
 and he looked back at the door of the cafe as he 
 
Another Man's Duds 135 
 
 spoke. Madame Gaucher was standing there 
 looking at the trio. Doors were opening and shut- 
 ting down the street and a number of American 
 soldiers were forming up in line as if getting 
 ready to march away. 
 
 "Where are they goin'?" asked Sullivan, in a 
 puzzled voice. The sight of the Engineers form- 
 ing up in the darkness sobered him a little. 
 
 "Where are they goin'?" repeated Stiff. 
 "They're goin' out to work. There's a job on up 
 near the fightin' line and we're wanted at once. 
 Compree ?" 
 
 "But how can he go?" asked Burke pointing 
 at the Irishman. "He can't come with us dressed 
 in this get-up." 
 
 "Overcoats are to be worn," said Stiff, who was 
 always ready to see the way out of a difficulty. 
 "If 'e gets into 'is overcoat 'e'll be all right, and 
 by the time that we're up there, 'e may 'ave an 
 excuse for bein' like this." 
 
 The two youngsters rushed into the cafe, found 
 Sullivan's equipment and his overcoat. The lat- 
 ter article was put on, buttoned up round the 
 throat so that it hid every vestige of the blue uni- 
 form. His pack was shoved on his back, bound 
 together, and between the two men he marched 
 to his position in the party. 
 
 "Slip to yer places, ye derned rounders," said 
 
136 The Dough Boys 
 
 a corporal as the men came forward. "You're 
 late." 
 
 "Couldn't find my putts," said Stiff. 
 
 "The three of you should be jugged!" said the 
 corporal in an angry voice. Turning out of bed 
 so early in the morning did not help the men's 
 temper. 
 
 "When some men get a bit iv promotion they 
 think " 
 
 Stiff pinched Sullivan's arm with vicious fin- 
 gers and the Irishman became silent. 
 
 "Who's speaking?" asked the corporal. 
 
 There was no reply. In the darkness it was 
 impossible to catch the expression on the men's 
 faces. The roll was called, the corporal reading 
 out the men's names with the aid of an electric 
 torch. When all the preliminaries were at an end 
 the party marched away along the much-shelled 
 road that led to the firing line. As they marched 
 they could hear the thunder of guns from the dis- 
 tance, and see the lights of war reddening the 
 horizon. Big battle was being made up front, 
 where men were fighting and dying. 
 
 Burke marched on one side of Sullivan, Stiff on 
 the other. The Irishman stumbled often and 
 once or twice he was on the point of falling down. 
 On each of these occasions his two mates gripped 
 his arms and assisted him on his march, but as 
 
Another Man's Duds 137 
 
 the march went on, Sullivan grew sober and alert. 
 He got into his swing and walked with a steady 
 step of a man who was getting sure of his limbs. 
 An hour came to an end and the order to fall out 
 by the side of the road was given. Burke and 
 Stiff sat down on their packs and lit their cig- 
 arettes, while Sullivan stood upright and fumbled 
 in his pocket — the pocket of the uniform which 
 was not his own — for his pipe. Needless to say 
 he could not find it. He rubbed his hand over 
 his forehead and looked at his two mates. 
 
 "Glory be ! But I don't know what's happened 
 to me," he said. "It's out on a march that we 
 are, isn't it?" 
 
 "You've tumbled to it !" said Stiff, and a twin- 
 kle of merriment showed in his eyes. "We're out 
 on a march, Sullivan, and you've been blind, blind 
 to the wide." 
 
 "Me head's splittin', anyway," said the Irish- 
 man, grinning sheepishly. "But I feel that I am 
 dramin'. Where are we goin' at all, at all?" 
 
 "Out to work," said Burke. "And early to the 
 job, too. It's about half-past four now." 
 
 "But it's not known to me when we've left the 
 cafe, for to get here we must have left the place," 
 said Sullivan. "Tell me all about it, the two iv 
 yees." 
 
 "It was like this," said Stiff: "At arf-past two 
 
138 The Dough Boys 
 
 we were routed out o' our bunks and told to get 
 ready for our work. Blimey! there was some 
 grousin', for none o' us liked to be disturbed in 
 our beauty sleep. But, c'est le guerre, and a bloke 
 'as to show a leg when 'e's told ter. Me and Burke 
 go inter our rags and out ter the street, and the 
 first thing that we got our eyes on was a bloke in 
 French uniform reelin' along the pavement like 
 a bloomin' looney lamp-post. And that bloke was 
 our mate, the red-haired Irishman Sullivan, and 
 'im well in the cart, blind as a bloomin' lord." 
 
 "Me!" Sullivan exclaimed. "Me comin' back 
 like that at three in the mornin' ! I don't call it 
 to mind." 
 
 "Not likely that yer would mind it," said Stiff. 
 "People only get boosed ter forget that they're 
 alive. And when we saw yer we thought o' the 
 last orders from Pershin' 'gainst the boose and we 
 were afraid that it would be the jug for yer, so 
 we togged yer up in yer overcoat and hunched 
 yer inter line in the squad and ye marched off 
 with us two 'elpin' yer, and 'ere ye are now." 
 
 "Glory be ! I take it to be true, since ye say so, 
 and since I've got a Frenchman's duds under me 
 overcoat," said Sullivan. "But beyond that it's 
 nothin' much that I know iv me proceedin's last 
 night. I mind goin' into a French house and get- 
 tin' wine, plenty iv it, and it was damned good 
 
Another Man's Duds 139 
 
 stuff, but all at once I forget things and I find 
 mesself here now. And me head's splittin'." 
 
 "Gettin' sober?" asked Stiff. 
 
 "As sober as a fish at the bottom iv a well," 
 said the Irishman. "But me head, me darlin' suf- 
 ferin' head." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE AMERICANS AT CAMBRAI 
 
 IT was half-past six in the morning when the 
 Engineers arrived at a certain point of the 
 Cambrai sector, three miles to the rear of 
 the fighting line, and here they were served with 
 tools and ordered to start work at the laying of 
 a new railway line, and repairing an old fine 
 which had been badly damaged by artillery fire 
 on a recent date. Sullivan and his two friends 
 had never been so near the line before, and as they 
 bent to their work they could hear the clatter of 
 machine gun and rifle fire from the trenches. 
 
 "And we work here," said Burke. "While 
 they're fighting and going at one another's throats 
 up-front a few miles away." 
 
 "Glory be ! But it's a rotten job workin' here," 
 said Sullivan. "Will the good saints ever give 
 us a chance to do somethin' that cannot be done 
 with a spade and shovel?" 
 
 "So bloomin' near and yet so bloomin' far," 
 said Stiff, standing upright and listening to the 
 rifle fire. "And wot will ye say when they find 
 
 140 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 141 
 
 you with your bloomin' coat off?" he enquired, 
 turning to Sullivan, who was yet attired in his 
 overcoat. 
 
 "It's not me that knows," said the Irishman. 
 "But maybe me patron saint will help me in givin' 
 a ready answer when the trouble breaks. And I 
 wished that these fellows weren't workin' in their 
 shirt-sleeve when a Kingarrow man has to be 
 wrapped up the same as if he was afeerd iv the 
 cold." 
 
 He pointed at the workers who could be seen 
 through the darkness of the early Winter morn- 
 ing. Numbers had taken off their jackets, and 
 with their sleeves thrust up to their shoulders 
 were hard at their work. And this while the 
 Kingarrow man, who was probably the best man- 
 ual worker of all, was struggling manfully to 
 labour attired in his heavy overcoat! 
 
 "But what does it matter, anyway," he said at 
 last. "Isn't it in me to do as much in me coat as 
 another man can do in trousers and shirt." 
 
 "Course yer can work better than any two 
 blokes in this show," said Stiff, who wished to 
 console the man who found himself in such a 
 nasty position. 
 
 "If that snotty underweight of a corporal 
 doesn't get you, you're all right," said Burke. 
 "And your head; is it better now?" 
 
142 The Dough Boys 
 
 "As right as a cushadoo on a nest," said Sul- 
 livan. "And it's feelin' fit for any job, I am now, 
 if only I could get into shirt sleeves." 
 
 " 'Ere's the bloomin' corporal comin' along 
 'ere," said Stiff, pointing to a man with chevrons 
 on his sleeve, who was wandering along the line 
 of men and seeing that they were doing their 
 work. " 'E'll be on your neck, Sullivan, when 
 'e gets along ter 'ere." 
 
 But the corporal did not reach Sullivan. Even 
 as Stiff spoke a shell whizzed through the air 
 and burst with a dizzy clatter in the field a hun- 
 dred yards distant from the engineers. A second 
 shell followed, and a third, and all fell in the same 
 place. 
 
 "Is it shellin' us that they are?" asked Sulli- 
 van. "Well, I hope that it is, for it will keep the 
 corporal away from here." 
 
 His mates did not answer. They stood up- 
 right, their lips a little open and their faces 
 strangely pale, and watched the smoke of the ex- 
 ploding shells curling over the field. The three 
 men had seen shells bursting before, but never 
 had they seen them fall so near. 
 
 "Wot oh! they've spotted us!" said Stiff, 
 "spotted the bloomin' dough boys at their work. 
 Well, the proper thing to do when there's a row 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 143 
 
 on the Western Front is to put a fag in your 
 moosh and smoke it." 
 
 It was then that the row started* A tornado 
 of fire swept the country, scattering the mud in 
 air and uprooting trees which had not already 
 fallen, tearing the newly-laid line to pieces and 
 wounding some of the workers. Hell had broken 
 loose on the Cambrai sector, a barrage had op- 
 ened over the heads of the American soldiers. 
 
 "Like the thunders iv hell and destruction," 
 said Sullivan, taking off his overcoat and his 
 jacket. He thrust up his sleeves, baring his 
 mighty arms, and bent with a spade to continue 
 the work of the morning. For a while he worked 
 with violence, throwing up the earth as if to 
 drown the sound of the artillery fire with his la- 
 bour. Then he suddenly managed to get a glimpse 
 of his mates, Stiff and Burke. The two were 
 standing together, their cigarettes in their mouths 
 and talking about the life which they had known 
 in New York. Stiff was telling of his adventures 
 on the bread-line when he had not a penny to 
 bless himself with, and Burke was speaking of 
 his life at school. Both were trying to be inter- 
 ested in what one another was saying, but for 
 all that it was plain to Sullivan that they were 
 talking merely to show that they weren't fright- 
 ened. A number of men were lying down, flat on 
 
144 The Dough Boys 
 
 jthe earth, seeking whatever cover was available. 
 One or two men were walking around smoking 
 cigarettes, apparently indifferent to the shelling. 
 One of these men was the corporal who had called 
 the roll early in the morning, a boy who to all 
 seeming did not know what fear was. 
 
 "Well, me two boys, what is all this jawin' 
 about?" Sullivan enquired, looking at his two 
 mates. "Tongue bangin' yees are as if the 
 burstin' iv damnation about yer ears was nothin' 
 at all to yees. 
 
 Burke looked at the Irishman. 
 
 "Oh! they're shelling us," he said, raising his 
 eyebrows as if he had suddenly become aware of 
 the bursting shells. "Hope they hike along in this 
 direction." 
 
 "The shells or the Hineys," asked Stiff. 
 
 "The Hineys," said the youngster. "It would 
 be some fun if they came along here right now." 
 
 "It wouldn't be all fun," said the Irishman, 
 "not for them, at least, if they came up forninst 
 me. I've a debt to wipe out with the laddybucks." 
 
 The shell-fire increased in intensity, sweeping 
 up like a mighty sea of sound and death and re- 
 ceding again. Then it gathered strength and 
 once more came forwards over the heads of the 
 engineers. A number were hit, and these fell to 
 the ground. Their comrades dragged them into 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 145 
 
 the little shelter which the field offered or into a 
 derelict trench which ran parallel with the rail- 
 way line. Several men were already sheltering 
 in the trench, while others were rushing into its 
 shelter whenever a lull occurred in the leaden 
 storm. 
 
 "Well, it's time for us to get into shelter as well 
 as the rest," said Sullivan at last, as he put on his 
 overcoat again. "I see that officer iv ours goin' 
 in himself, and he's wavin' to us to do the same." 
 
 Burke and Stiff put on their tunics and the 
 three men lifted up their tools and went into the 
 trench. Nobody was out in the open now. The 
 trench was thronged with men, and on the fire- 
 steps were placed a number of wounded and one 
 or two dead. Out on the open the shells con- 
 tinued to fall and away up front the rifle fire 
 crackled like dry twigs on a fire. 
 
 "Gee! they're usin' some pills up in that quar- 
 ter," said an engineer to Sullivan. "Wonder if 
 they'll be breakin' through!" 
 
 "I hope they do, the laddybucks !" said Sullivan, 
 gripping his spade and tightening the corners of 
 his lips. "Just let them come if they dare !" 
 
 "But we'd make no fist of the job if they came 
 along right here," said the engineer. "We've 
 no rifles." 
 
 "I've fought me man at the harvest fair iv 
 
146 The Dough Boys 
 
 Kingarrow," said Sullivan grimly. "And me only- 
 weapon was a stone in the foot iv a woman's 
 stockin', and I bate him at that and him havin' a 
 cudgel to help him at the job." 
 
 "If the Hineys come along right here," said 
 Burke, whose martial ardour was rising with the 
 fall of each successive shell, "we'll have a hell of 
 a row. One side will win, I suppose, but that side 
 won't be ours." 
 
 As he spoke he swung his shovel over his head 
 and attacked a sandbag with vicious energy, as if 
 it were a German. 
 
 "Aisy, ye limb iv perdition, aisy," said Sullivan, 
 when the spade, swinging by his head, almost hit 
 him on the jaw. "Is it to make a casualty iv me 
 ye are tryin' ?" 
 
 As he spoke he gripped the spade and took it 
 away from the youngster and placed it against 
 the wall of the trench. 
 
 At that moment the young officer made his ap- 
 pearance, walking along the parapet, his cigarette 
 in his mouth. 
 
 "All you fellows have got to hike back," he 
 said. "It's useless remaining here when you are 
 not armed. Clear out of it as quickly as you 
 know how, and take the wounded men with you !" 
 
 The shelling had veered a little to the left and 
 the immediate neighbourhood was quite safe for 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 147 
 
 the time being. No shells were now falling there. 
 A number of the men clambered over the top with 
 the wounded and made their way to the rear out 
 of danger. To remain was foolish and useless. 
 A pick or shovel was no good when held up to 
 stem the advance of men, armed with machine 
 guns and rifles. 
 
 One man did not go away, however, big Mur- 
 tagh Sullivan, the soldier attired in the uniform 
 of a republic not his own. When the officer made 
 an inspection of the trenches to see that all the 
 wounded were taken away, Sullivan hid behind 
 a traverse and waited for the departure of the 
 Loot. Then he came along to where his spade 
 was placed, lifted it and stood waiting for what- 
 ever might occur. The Germans might come 
 along, and if they did, he could fight. It would 
 be a fight against odds, he was well aware, but 
 that was much better than going back and giving 
 an explanation as to how he had come to possess 
 the uniform of a French soldier instead of his 
 own. 
 
 "Thought yer were out o' it, Ginger Sullivan !" 
 The voice came from a dugout under the 
 parados, and following the voice came Stiff the 
 Cockney, and following the Cockney, came Burke, 
 and following Burke came two engineers whom 
 Sullivan did not recognise. 
 
148 The Dough Boys 
 
 "Glory be!" exclaimed the Irishman. "And is 
 it the two iv yees that are waitin' here when yees 
 should be away back to safety. It'll be the jug 
 for yees when yees go back." 
 
 "And why are you staying here?" asked Burke. 
 
 "Me !" Sullivan exclaimed. "It's not in me to 
 go down garbed as I am. I have no explanation 
 to give to the Top iv our mob, if he puts it to me 
 where I've got this rig-out. So I'm stayin', but 
 yees two get out iv it and get back. The Hineys 
 may be here any minut now." 
 
 "We could have been out of it if we 
 wished " 
 
 "If we bloomin' well wished " 
 
 "But we prefer to stay " 
 
 "And 'ave a bloomin' scrap !" 
 
 "With your fists?" asked Sullivan, looking at 
 his two mates. 
 
 "Wiv our bloomin' mitts, if it comes to that," 
 said Stiff. 
 
 "All right, then, stay, and God be with yees," 
 said Sullivan lifting his spade. "And, glory be! 
 but it will be a grand fight if they come close to 
 us and give us a bit iv a chance for arm work. 
 And here, the shells are comin' to our neighbour- 
 hood again, bad cess to them !" 
 
 Half a dozen shells had fallen almost simulta- 
 neously twenty yards away, tearing up the 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 149 
 
 ground, and the railway ties, and flinging the 
 earth and rails broadcast. Splinters flew across 
 the lip of the trench, past the ears of Sullivan, 
 who was standing upright with his head well over 
 the parapet. Burke, with no reason for doing so 
 beyond the desire to show that he was as indif- 
 ferent as the Irishman to danger, also stood up 
 and looked on the smoke curling over the newly- 
 made shell-holes. Stiff, not to be outdone, clam- 
 bered out into the field and lit a cigarette as if in 
 challenge to the fury of war and the whims of 
 Fate. 
 
 "And what for would ye be goin' out there, ye 
 limb!" asked Sullivan, reaching out his arm and 
 dragging the youngster back into the trench. 
 "Showin' off that ye are, is it? Ye needn't do 
 that, for are ye not as brave iv heart as a lion, 
 and we all know it." 
 
 He dropped Stiff on the floor of the trench and 
 stood up again, leaning on the shovel which he 
 held. Fifty or more shells whizzed over the 
 trench, fell to the ground and burst. 
 
 "Ah! is it thryin' to fright us that ye are," 
 said Sullivan, addressing the shells. "Well, if it 
 is, it's not in our coats to be frightened by things 
 like ye. But wait till them that sent ye comes 
 along, and we'll show them somethin', the limbs 
 iv hell." 
 
ISO The Dough Boys 
 
 Even as he spoke he heard the croon of many- 
 shells coming through the air. The dark cold 
 sky was filled with them and all seemed to be 
 making for the trench, for the spot where Sulli- 
 van was standing. One went over his head and 
 dropped in the field behind, a second was ap- 
 proaching, and he felt that this one was going to 
 hit him. He bent down, pleased to see that all the 
 other men had done likewise. Suddenly the 
 trench rocked and several sandbags were blown 
 in on top of the men. The shell had burst imme- 
 diately in front of the parapet. 
 
 "Hurted?" asked Sullivan, looking at Stiff, who 
 was doing his best to unbury himself from the 
 dirt which surrounded him. 
 
 "Not knocked out," said the Cockney. "Are 
 you?" 
 
 "The half iv France is down me back, but that 
 is all," said Sullivan with a laugh. "And Burke, 
 where is he, the limb?" 
 
 Burke, untouched, was doing his best to spit a 
 mouthful of clay on to his tunic. As he was 
 doing this he recollected a certain incident of his 
 life in Mud-wallow when his mouth was washed 
 out with brown soap and water. As he thought 
 of this he wished that Toughey was in the trench 
 at the present moment, with his mouth filled with 
 dirt just as was his own. 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 151 
 
 The guns were now bellowing all over the lo- 
 cality and the sector to which they had come that 
 morning was quiet no longer. The whole neigh- 
 bourhood was belted with flame and curtained 
 with blinding smoke. The trench in which the 
 few engineers stood was dismantled from top to 
 bottom, sandbags and the timber props of dug- 
 outs were flying sky-high and falling all round. 
 Parapet, parados, traverse and bay were dwin- 
 dling to pieces. The black anarchy of war, with 
 its consternation and agony, had descended on 
 the men, and Sullivan, Burke and Stiff and the 
 others who were with them, impotent in the face 
 of the bombardment, could do nothing but cower 
 in the shelter of the trench and wait till the fever 
 of hate had consumed itself. 
 
 Many surprises were in store for the men who 
 waited. The trench suddenly seemed to become 
 alive with men, with engineers who had hidden 
 themselves in the many dugouts when they got 
 the order to retire. But they were not going to 
 leave when there was a chance of getting to grips 
 with the foe. They hadn't come over to France 
 just to run off when the Germans came near them. 
 They had no rifles, it was true, but they had the 
 courage of brave men spoiling for a fight, and 
 they had their spades, their picks and shovels. 
 Even if these failed, they had their fists. 
 
152 The Dough Boys 
 
 "We didn't hear the orders to hike back," said 
 one man, a tall, gaunt fellow with a heavy mous- 
 tache, as he stooped in the trench opposite Sulli- 
 van. "And we can't obey orders that we never 
 hear." 
 
 "Here they come!" said Burke, who peeped 
 over the parapet and looked towards the Ger- 
 man lines. 
 
 "Gawd, so they are," said Stiff, as his eyes fol- 
 lowed Burke's outstretched trigger finger. " 'Ere 
 they come, Sullivan. Get ready !" 
 
 The Irishman looked over, saw two, three, half 
 a dozen figures in field grey following the tail of 
 the barrage. He placed his spade against the 
 wall of the trench, pulled off his overcoat and 
 disclosed himself to the view of the strangers as 
 a soldier in the uniform of France. But the mo- 
 ment was one in which men had no time to pay 
 attention to matters of such minor importance. 
 One thing that interested them was Sullivan's 
 jump over the parapet into the open field. The 
 man carried his spade in his hand, and when he 
 reached a huddle of overturned trucks that had 
 fouled the points of the newly-laid railway, he 
 came to a standstill and waited for the attackers 
 to advance. It would have been much wiser for 
 him to lie down, but this precaution did not seem 
 to occur to the man. He thought of his two 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 153 
 
 brothers, Fergus and Micky, and his heart was 
 filled with rage against the Germans. The other 
 men jumped out and took up their position by the 
 side of Sullivan, but they all lay down. Time 
 enough to show themselves when the Germans 
 came near. 
 
 "You lie down, too," said Burke. "What's the 
 derned good of standing like that, exposing your- 
 self." 
 
 The Irishman took the youngster's advice and 
 spread himself on the damp earth and waited. 
 
 The Germans came forward, their bayonets 
 ready for fight, their bombs strapped to their 
 equipment. The foremost German stopped short 
 when he saw the engineers, unhooked a bomb 
 from its place, drew the pin and flung it at the 
 nearest man — Murtagh Sullivan. The bomb 
 dropped in front of the Irishman's face. Sulli- 
 van got up, seized the bomb and flung it back. 
 The aim was a true one, and the bomb burst just 
 as it touched the German. Then Sullivan, the 
 thought of his two dead brothers in his mind and 
 the fury of war in his blood, rushed over the 
 human fragments which littered the ground, and 
 gave battle to the oncoming Germans. In front 
 of all his mates who rushed into the attack, 
 he was Fury personified, his weapon was the 
 symbol of his toil, the spade, and with a spade 
 
154 The Dough Boys 
 
 in his hands Sullivan was a formidable figure. 
 
 One German, cleft from ear to chin, fell with 
 a hoarse, strangled cry, and Sullivan jumped 
 across his body and caught the next man with a 
 blow on the shoulder. The German fell like a 
 bullock, cut in two. Then Sullivan went mad, 
 and, attacking a party of four, he routed it. One 
 made a lunge at the man with his bayonet, but 
 the Irishman, with that supreme instinct which 
 the occasion demanded, broke down the guard of 
 the enemy, and got him with the iron of the spade 
 on the stomach. The blow was a sound one, and 
 the German went out of the scene of war for 
 good. 
 
 All round him the other men were fighting 
 gamely, using their picks and shovels in just the 
 same way as Sullivan was doing. There was no 
 time for reflection on their part. Their job was 
 one, and simple. All that they had to do was to 
 kill, kill. Bombs were bursting near them, and 
 rifle bullets were hissing through the air. Some 
 of the Germans were lying down and firing, and 
 three or four of the Americans fell to the ground, 
 wounded. One man lying in a natural fold of 
 the earth, and safe for the moment, raised him- 
 self on his elbow. 
 
 "Hi, there, you cracker jacks," he shouted. "Lie 
 down if you don't all want to get killed." 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 155 
 
 Some of the soldiers heard him and threw 
 themselves flat to the earth. What was the good 
 of standing up, sure targets for the speedy bullet ! 
 Those who were lying called to their mates to do 
 the same, and presently not a man was standing 
 upright. Even Sullivan, who was following a 
 flying German, came to a dead stop and threw 
 himself flat to the ground. 
 
 "Knocked out, Sullivan?" Stiff called when he 
 saw the Irishman fall to the earth. 
 
 "Still game in me," Sullivan called over his 
 shoulder. "And yees two, are yees gettin' on all 
 right?" 
 
 " 'Angin' on wiv the skin o' our teeth," said 
 Stiff. "Ain't we, Burke?" 
 
 "Weathering through," said the second young- 
 ster. "But it was a bit hot." 
 
 He had been fighting as grimly as any veteran, 
 doing big battle against the foe. Now that there 
 was a moment's respite he had a look round him. 
 The rain was falling and a cold breeze swept 
 across the field, where a number of inert bodies 
 were lying very still, Americans and Germans. 
 With a strange detachment, the youth watched 
 them as if they belonged to a world that was not 
 his own. Although barely twenty yards away, 
 they seemed as if they lay at an infinite distance. 
 With a certain feverishness he rubbed his hand 
 
156 The Dough Boys 
 
 over his forehead, repeating to himself again and 
 again : "Now we're right in the thick of it !" 
 
 He looked down at the buttons of his tunic, at 
 his pockets and his trousers, surprised to see that 
 all these articles of apparel retained their ordi- 
 nary everyday appearance. It was strange, very 
 strange, and it was war. 
 
 He raised his head a little higher and he saw 
 a form move round the corner of an upturned 
 truck, which lay on the field a short distance 
 away. He could only see a shoulder and a face 
 and instinctively he guessed that the figure be- 
 longed to an enemy. He was a man who had con- 
 cealed himself there a few minutes before when 
 fighting was in progress. Now he was peering 
 out from his shelter, his rifle in his hand, and 
 seeking for a man to fire at. 
 
 "Who'll he get?" Burke asked himself and lay 
 down close to the earth so that the man whom 
 the German would get would not be himself. 
 Then a feeling of shame came over him, at his 
 own fear of death, and he stuck his head up again. 
 
 "There's a Hiney with a gun behind one of 
 those trucks right in front, so you'd better get 
 into cover !" he shouted. 
 
 Even as he spoke a rifle shot rang out and a 
 man fell with a strangled cry to the ground. The 
 man was the German with the rifle. St iffy, who 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 157 
 
 had picked a rifle from the ground in the course 
 of the row, had spotted the German at the same 
 moment as Burke, and had fired at him. The 
 bullet went through the man's head, killing him 
 instantly. 
 
 As he fell, Sullivan, in his French uniform, 
 soiled a little from the morning's work, went 
 across to the dead man and made himself owner 
 of the German's weapon. Then standing upright 
 he looked round him. 
 
 Not a soul, save the engineers and a few Brit- 
 ish soldiers who had just joined the party, was 
 to be seen near at hand. Away on the left a 
 number of dark figures were crossing the rise of 
 a hill, some coming one way and others going an- 
 other way. Whether they were enemies or 
 friends it was impossible to say. What they were 
 doing Sullivan could not determine. But it did 
 not matter. He was quite happy now, for the 
 fight of the morning had done his heart good and 
 slaked his thirst for fighting — for a moment at 
 least. He felt in his pocket again, but could not 
 find his little black clay pipe. The uniform of a 
 republic that was not his own had its disadvan- 
 tages. 
 
 He went back to his mates, his rifle in his hand. 
 When he reached Burke and Stiffy he sat down. 
 
 "Well, me boys, 'twas the glory iv a mornin', 
 
158 The Dough Boys 
 
 this," he said. "Such a bit iv a ruction doesn't 
 come to hand every day. But I wish that I had 
 had this bay'net in me hand when I was in the 
 thick iv it. With an open field, elbow room and 
 no favour, it would have worked miracles." 
 
 "A good souvenir," said Burke, whose teeth 
 were chattering a little. 
 
 "Not as good as this'n wot I've got," said 
 Stiffy, getting to his feet. "A bloomin' big Hiney 
 came for me, and I dodged out o' the way a bit 
 and gave 'im one whack across the moosh and 
 down 'e went, and then the loot." 
 
 "I saw the two iv yees at it, Burke and yer- 
 self, Stiffy, and it was the grand fist ye made iv 
 the business," said Sullivan with a depth of feel- 
 ing in his voice. "Burke went for his man just 
 like a master cudgel player at the harvest fair iv 
 Ballycreena and he downed his man twice in me 
 knowin', downed him just the same as a Trojan 
 iv old. Now he's . . . What's wrong wid ye, 
 Bud?" asked Sullivan, using the boy's nickname 
 in tones of concern. "Is it cryin' that ye are?" 
 
 "No fear," said the boy rubbing his eyes with 
 the back of his hand. "It's the smoke that has 
 got into them." 
 
 "The smoke o' wot?" asked Stiffy. "Ye're not 
 smokin' a fag!" 
 
 "Even if he isn't, what does it matter," said 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 159 
 
 Sullivan. "Men are boys when it comes to the 
 butt iv the business, and it's not a nice job killin', 
 not anway till ye get used to it." 
 
 Burke turned on his face, pressed his head to 
 the ground and did not speak. As he lay there 
 the two men could see his shoulders quiver, 
 shaken by sobs. 
 
 "Well, I'm Mowed," said Stiffy. "Blowed, 
 bloomin' well blowed." 
 
 "It all depends on the way that the job takes a 
 man," said Sullivan. "Some it takes one way and 
 some it takes another. But, all the same, it was 
 the grand fight that he made, a grand fight en- 
 tirely." 
 
 So saying he sat down again with his hand 
 resting on the shoulders of Burke as if to com- 
 fort him. Stiffy became interested in the mech- 
 anism of his rifle. The other men of the party 
 lit cigarettes and talked of various things of life 
 and war. The engineers spoke lightly of the 
 morning's work — it was their first hand-to-hand 
 fight. The British soldiers were solemn in their 
 utterances, especially those who had been at the 
 game of war since Mons. 
 
 "We were in our trench," said one, an old man 
 with a wrinkled face and a clot of blood on his 
 cheek. "We were holdin' it light when the guns 
 started. And they were right on top of us be- 
 
160 The Dough Boys 
 
 fore we knew where we were. It was fightin' all 
 the way back, all the way." 
 
 "Which bloomin' side is goin' to win this war ?" 
 asked Stiffy. 
 
 "One side's goin' to win it," said the old man, 
 as he tested the action of his rifle. "One side's 
 goin' to win, and it's not the Jerrys." 
 
 The day passed on its slow leaden pace and the 
 party was not disturbed. Now and again when 
 one stood upright a bullet whizzed by his ears, 
 telling him of a hidden watcher posted in some 
 near clump of trees or behind one of the disused 
 trenches. The field was full of menace, and it 
 was unwise for a man to show himself. 
 
 In the afternoon, on the advice of the old man 
 who had been in the trenches, the party made their 
 way back to the village in rear, crawling down 
 trenches or hurrying across the open from cover 
 to cover, carrying the wounded with them. Back 
 there Sullivan, Stiffy and Bud got into touch with 
 their company and with these they made their way 
 further back, until at last they came to the village 
 which they had left that morning. 
 
 It was now about midnight, and though Ma- 
 dame Gaucher had not as yet retired, Gustave was 
 in the cellar and sound asleep. But the entry of 
 the three men awoke him and he clambered up- 
 stairs. 
 
The Americans at Cambrai 161 
 
 "Toolivan!" he lisped, rubbing the sleep from 
 his eyes. "Toolivan." 
 
 "What are ye wantin' now, ye wee rogue," said 
 the Irishman lifting the boy in his arms and rais- 
 ing him over his head. 
 
 "Zerman elmet," said the youngster, cooing 
 with delight as he kicked out with both legs, in 
 Sullivan's hands. 
 
 "A German helmet that ye're wantin', is it?" 
 asked the Irishman. 
 
 "Zerman elmet," the boy assented, 
 
 "He has been listening to the guns all day, and 
 he thought that you would bring him back a hel- 
 met when you returned," said Madame Gaucher. 
 
 "Glory be, and so we would, if we saw one at 
 all," said Sullivan. "But there wasn't one to be 
 had. The Germans that we saw had caps on their 
 heads much like the one that ye've on yer head 
 yerself, Mistress Gaucher." 
 
 "Well, little Mister Gustave," said Sullivan, 
 addressing the youngster when Bud had explained 
 the Irishman's preceding remark to Mistress 
 Gaucher. "I'll be thinkin' iv ye the next time that 
 I get into a ruction with the Boches, and I'll take 
 ye back a helmet here to the Cafe Bienvenu. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 CANNED WILLIE 
 
 ' 1.1 RE, matey, could yer write a song for 
 |*^ J me, one o' the soft sort, yer know, the 
 kind that makes yer watery in the 
 lamps, sloppy in yer talk and mushy inside o' yer 
 like? A song ter a bird that's ace high on the 
 face and figger question. Somefing like the last 
 un yer wrote me?" 
 
 "The one about Babette in the Cafe Moulin 
 Rouge?" 
 
 "Not that un. Casey has nicked that peach, 
 and she's not at 'ome ter any other bloke as goes 
 round 'er way now." 
 
 "Oh, yes ! I wrote another when we were up 
 at Cambrai. You were in love with Yvette then." 
 
 "Wasn't in love wiv 'er. Do you think that a 
 man's in love wiv a girl when 'e gets another guy 
 ter write 'er a song?" 
 
 "Well, it looks like it, does it not? You go 
 mooning about after a girl, making googoo eyes 
 at her and then you turn round and tell your tame 
 poet that you're not in love with her. Cheese it, 
 Stiffy, you derned son-of-a-gun, cheese it." 
 
 162 
 
Canned Willie 163 
 
 They were back at Mud-wallow again, the 
 three soldiers who had worked with the engineers 
 up North — Ginger, Stiffy and Bud, as they now 
 had lovingly nicknamed one another — and com- 
 ing back they found that a great change had taken 
 place in the old town since they went away. They 
 came back anticipating the same dull monoto- 
 nous grind which had been theirs before they left, 
 hours of drill on the wet parade ground, marches 
 over the fields and roads, hours of sentry-go at 
 the street corners, oft repeated yarns round the 
 hut-stoves with their dying fires, parades for din- 
 ner and pay, short hours of relaxation in the 
 cafes, short hours of rest in the sleeping bunks 
 and parades endless and monotonous. Such was 
 the life before the three men went away, but now 
 that they had come back they found a different 
 manner of life in the ancient town of Mud-wal- 
 low. Bayonets were newly shapened now, but not 
 for piercing the stuffed sacks on the parade 
 ground. New uniforms and equipment were doled 
 out liberally, not for show in the streets but for 
 service in the trenches. Teeth and feet were in- 
 spected by competent officers, examined with sol- 
 emn eye as if the whole future life of each squad 
 of dough boys depended more upon their march- 
 ing powers and their powers of mastication than 
 anything else. Companies were brought up to full 
 
164 The Dough Boys 
 
 by drafts from the replacement divisions. Bri- 
 gade and division manoeuvres were carried out on 
 an imposing scale, and carried out oftener than 
 formerly. So the day was at hand, the hour had 
 come, the Big Job for which the soldiers had come 
 was about to be started and started soon. X Di- 
 vision was going to do something more romantic 
 than cleaning French streets and sweeping French 
 gutters and the men of X Division were pleased. 
 They were going to see things and do things. 
 They were going to fight. 
 
 None were as pleased as Sullivan, the red- 
 haired Irishman, Stiffy, the roving Cockney, and 
 Bud, the poet, with the college education. Sulli- 
 van, when he was told of the impending move, re- 
 tired within a cafe and spent two long hours writ-, 
 ing a mighty letter to the girl whom he had known 
 in New York, the daughter of Boss Kelly, pretty 
 Sheila, the one whom he loved. Bud went about 
 amongst the men for the purposes of psychologi- 
 cal study, as he explained to his mates. "I want 
 to see how they feel," he said. "And one day I'll 
 write a book about the morale of the American 
 troops on active service." 
 
 He spoke as a man who was far above any 
 feelings himself. He was simply an observer, a 
 professor who is interested in the fly that is im- 
 paled on a pin. But in place of the ordinary fly 
 
Canned Willie 165 
 
 the living thing under observation at the present 
 moment was the dough boys. Since the fight with 
 the Germans at Cambrai he had risen very much 
 in his own opinion. He considered himself a vet- 
 eran hardened in wars from that day forward. 
 And Stiffy, for want of something better to do, 
 fell in love again. This was the third occasion on 
 which he had succumbed to the wiles of the fair 
 ones within a period of three months. With him, 
 when one pleasure dulled he looked out for an- 
 other. His new love was a girl who lived in the 
 village, a dainty French maiden who went round 
 with a basket on her arm selling chocolate to the 
 soldiers. 
 
 Now, with his two mates, Stiffy was sitting at 
 the table of a cafe urging Bud to write a new 
 poem for the new occasion of love. Sullivan was 
 writing a letter, using a borrowed pen for the job. 
 His writing was a most cumbrous creation. It 
 ran from one side to the other of the writing pad 
 in big ungainly lines, the letters looking as if they 
 had been formed by a thumbnail dipped in tar. 
 
 "Gee ! that's some writing," said Bud. "I never 
 saw such a scrawl in my life." 
 
 "Might 'ave been done with the bay'net," said 
 Stiffy. 
 
 "And done better," said Bud. "Sullivan is a 
 
166 The Dough Boys 
 
 quick beggar when it comes to work with the 
 bayonet." 
 
 "Thrue for ye," Sullivan acquiesced, looking 
 up for a moment. "The use iv the steel comes 
 aisy to me when there's elbow room and an open 
 field, but with this job I'm not handy at all. There 
 was a boy that I knew away at home in King- 
 arrow, first cousin iv me own he was, too, and 
 he " 
 
 "Sullivan, you ginger-'aired son of a skunk, 
 will ye not 'old yer tongue and stop jorin' about 
 the damned country that yer were chased out o','' 
 said Stiffy. "I'm tryin' ter get Bud ter write a 
 song for me, and 'ere yer jorin' in an' I can't get 
 anyfing off my bloomin' chest." 
 
 "He's in love agin, I suppose," said the Irish- 
 man. "Head over heels in the toils iv a woman." 
 
 "Right," said Bud. "He has applied for an is- 
 sue of poetry from the supply poet." 
 
 "Ye're goin' ter write me a song, ain't yer?" 
 Stiffy asked. 
 
 "Right, buck," said Bud, taking a sheet of writ- 
 ing paper from his pocket. "I'll write it right 
 now and not play you the dirty trick of the last 
 time by changing the name of the girl, and allow- 
 ing the rest to stand. It was quite easy, for both 
 girls' names, Yvette and Babette, contained the 
 same number of syllables." 
 
Canned Willie 167 
 
 As he spoke he took a lead pencil from his 
 pocket and wrote, reading each line aloud when 
 written : 
 
 "Canned Willie is my breakfast fare, I do not like the stuff — 
 Canned Willie for my dinner, too, and that's a trifle tough — 
 Canned Willie all the blooming time when grubbing isn't 
 
 fun — 
 The only Willie I would can is Will the Booby Hun. 
 So now I'm off to do the job and leave my love behind, 
 I'm off, a man with bean and go, to face the deadly grind. 
 I've slung my pack and oiled my gun and bought a pair of 
 
 putts 
 A manly heart beneath my rags, a gallant guy with guts " 
 
 "Cheese it, Bud, cheese it, you rounder !" said 
 Stiffy unable to endure the rhymed doggerel any 
 longer. "Wot d'yer think yer getting off yer 
 chest. A hymn, is it ?" 
 
 "A love song, boob," said the poet. "Do you 
 not like it?" 
 
 "Neither would you like it if you saw the girl 
 that I've got this time," said Stiffy. "She a reg- 
 ular peach." 
 
 "A sweeter crathur than Yvette ?" asked Sulli- 
 van. 
 
 "Yvette! H'm!" 
 
 "Than Babette?" 
 
 "If you saw 'er you wouldn't look at Babette 
 again." 
 
 "Than Marie, the slip iv a cutty that ye were 
 
168 The Dough Boys 
 
 crazy about way back at G , after we came 
 
 across to this country." 
 
 "Marie !" exclaimed Stiffy. "I forgot all about 
 'er when I met this'n!" 
 
 "Well, I've me letter finished, plase God," said 
 Sullivan, rising from his seat and stretching his 
 arms over his head. He looked round the cafe 
 at the men in khaki who were sitting down to 
 their drinks and their evening's talk. There was 
 a restless air over the crowd. The men felt that 
 they were standing on the threshold of events, 
 the most wonderful event of their lives. To- 
 morrow, so rumour had it, they were going up to 
 the trenches, leaving the old town in which they 
 had lived for such a long time and made so many 
 friends, leaving the fair girls, to whom they had 
 often made love, the kindly old women who had 
 come to love the American soldiers as sons of 
 their own, the pretty children, the little boys and 
 girls whom they loved to play with when the day's 
 work was done. They had groused while they 
 were here, and now that they were leaving the 
 place their hearts were heavy. They found that 
 they liked the place more than ever they had 
 realised. 
 
 "I was sick iv this mud-wallow iv a town," said 
 Sullivan, "heartily sick iv it till now, and now 
 that I've to go I find that me heart's heavy inside 
 
Canned Willie 169 
 
 me. I met the old woman that does me washin' 
 to-day and I told her that I was goin' away, and 
 what does the old body do but take me be the 
 hand and kisses it and the tears runnin' from her 
 eyes. It almost made the tears come from me own 
 eyes, too. It's wonderful the way that the grief 
 iv a woman can upset a man. And she's such a 
 nice body, with two sons iv her own lyin' cold in 
 the earth up at Verdun. Glory be!" — Sullivan 
 paused for a moment as if unable to go on. Then 
 he choked something — "Glory be, but it's the 
 price that France had paid in this war !" he said, 
 and turned and went out. 
 
 The two men, left to themselves, took stock of 
 the soldiers in the compartment. A number were 
 writing letters, notes to their people, to those 
 whom they loved. A few were engaged in con- 
 versation by the bar, but even while speaking 
 their thoughts seemed to be somewhere else. 
 Snatches of talk could be heard, and Burke as he 
 listened, felt his heart grow heavy. An air of 
 tragedy seemed to hang over the room. The men 
 were going off to-morrow, up to the line of battle 
 and death. 
 
 "It'll be bunk in our field-shoes now," said one. 
 
 "With cooties as our bunkmates," said another. 
 
 Words reached Burke's ears, words that 
 seemed to come from a great distance, sentences 
 
170 The Dough Boys 
 
 distorted and disjointed, laughter that had a ring 
 of defiance, swear-words with almost the solem- 
 nity of a prayer. 
 
 "We'll be up against it good . . . God-derned 
 rounders. . . . I'm damned if I fall out on the 
 hike, even if it's fifty miles. ... To obtain any- 
 thing good you've got to go through a lot o' trou- 
 ble . . . Pershing said so. . . . We can stick it 
 as well as any gang of tougheys. . . . We're to 
 carry two gas-masks, one for week-days and one 
 for Sundays. Got half a dollar's worth of candy 
 at the Y.M.C.A. this afternoon, etc., etc." 
 
 "We'll get back to our shack," said Stiffy, get- 
 ting to his feet "No bloomin' good o' me sittin' 
 here listenin' to all this jawin' when I can't get 
 yer to write that song for me. But maybe there'll 
 be some birds up front. If there are, it won't 
 be arf bad." 
 
 The two men went back to their shack, and 
 when they arrived there they found that orders 
 had come from the brigade commander, and 
 these orders put gladness into the heart of the 
 men. The men were to march off to-morrow. 
 The Day was at hand and the Big Job was to be 
 started. 
 
 "We're goin' to see about the delivery iv the 
 goods," said Sullivan. "And, glory be! but it's 
 goin' to be a job after our own heart." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 GOBUN TOWN 
 
 THE trek up to the trenches was a long and 
 weary one, taking many days to perform. 
 Even on the fifth day they were not in the 
 line but very near, so near that the men could 
 hear the sound of rifle firing from their billets 
 at night, the clatter of waggons and limbers as 
 they made their way up the roads of war towards 
 the front line. And the roads by day were quiet 
 and deserted. Nothing disturbed their isolation 
 save the big shells which the Germans sent across 
 in wild bursts of hate, shells which struck terror 
 into the hearts of the listeners and which bat- 
 tered the trees by the roads, uprooting them and 
 flinging them to earth. 
 
 The dough boys were billeted in a village, a 
 poor shattered cluster of houses with the walls 
 broken and the roof-tiles slashed to pieces. The 
 humble homes of the peasantry had borne the 
 brunt of the war for many days, months and years, 
 but despite all the torrents of hate which had been 
 loosened on the place, the natives still remained, 
 
 171 
 
172 The Dough Boys 
 
 following their daily toil, doing their various lit- 
 tle jobs with phlegmatic doggedness of the 
 French peasantry. The village in which they 
 were born and bred was their home, and they 
 were not going to leave it. Theirs is a courage 
 equal to that of the captain who remains on his 
 doomed vessel and goes down when the vessel 
 founders. Nay, it was a courage even greater, 
 for the valour was not that of strong men, but of 
 weak women and innocent children. Here, in the 
 ruined village, they lived and endured, braving 
 all the stress and strain of terrific bombardments 
 that were a daily occurrence, doing their work 
 at the washing pond or in the field, with death 
 forever standing by their sides. When the day's 
 work came to an end, they went to bed in the 
 damp cellars and slept there, scarcely knowing 
 when the next shell would sweep on their shelter 
 and blow it in on top of them. 
 
 Burke, when he saw the children of the village 
 attired in their gas-masks, called the place Gob- 
 lin Town. And to the trio it was known by that 
 name in future. 
 
 On the road that ran eastwards from Goblin 
 Town, the road to the trenches, there was a pony 
 lying dead between the shafts of a limber. The 
 poor animal had been lying there for many days, 
 its belly taut as a drum, its legs stretched straight 
 
Goblin Town 173 
 
 out across the grass that sprouted up between the 
 cobblestones. Near the horse, and under a tall 
 lacerated poplar, lay the driver, also dead, his 
 whip still in his hands, his leg-iron a little rusty 
 at ankle and knee. The line of poplars which 
 fringed the road faded away into the distance, 
 but here the trees were scarred and riven, with 
 nothing remaining of many save the peeled 
 stumps which looked white as lepers in the early 
 dawn of the early Spring. 
 
 In the morning Goblin Town was a place of 
 mystery. It once possessed a church, but noth- 
 ing remained of the church now save the steeple, 
 which stood forlorn in the market square. Look- 
 ing from the square the eye could see the drear 
 perspective of ravished streets, with the bricks of 
 the once cosy homesteads huddled on the pave- 
 ment. Suddenly a figure appeared on the streets, 
 just as if it had been taken from out of the shell 
 smoke which eternally circled over the ruins. The 
 form was that of a woman. She had come up 
 from the cellar, for here in Goblin Town all the 
 residents live underground. The woman gazed 
 round her for a moment, put her hand over her 
 ear as if listening for something, then disap- 
 peared into the rubble again. 
 
 Presently Burke, who was standing on the 
 street outside his billet, saw a number of children 
 
174 The Dough Boys 
 
 appear. They emerged from the ground just as 
 the woman had done, and now they careered 
 madly up the square towards the church. Others 
 joined in the flight, and old men and women ap- 
 peared from Nowhere in particular and urged the 
 children on with word and gesture. 
 
 Behind the church stood a ruined convent, and 
 it was to this building that the children were 
 going. The nuns who remained there were wait- 
 ing for them and stood at the entrance door, 
 dressed in blue homespuns, white frontlets and 
 black veils. When the children arrived, they were 
 ushered down into a cellar under the convent, and 
 here they learned their lessons for the day. The 
 good and faithful nuns, daring danger and death, 
 were seeing to the education of the children of 
 Goblin Town. 
 
 The cellar was a spacious apartment, dark and 
 cold. The tapering candles fixed to the walls 
 showed a poor light that was unable to pierce the 
 remote corners of the schoolroom. The Mother 
 Superior, a tall graceful woman, moved about like 
 a ghost in the cellar and welcomed the children 
 as they entered. All the little tots knew the 
 woman and loved her. And no wonder, for was 
 it not she who helped, so heartily, to reverse the 
 milestones in the neighbourhood when war broke 
 out, in order to put the German oppressors on 
 
Goblin Town 175 
 
 the wrong route when they were running over 
 France ? Indifferent to the danger and terror of 
 war, this good woman stuck to her post when the 
 fate of France hung in the balance. The people 
 of the village adored her and looked to her in 
 hours of stress and trial for guidance and help. 
 
 When the children were settled in the cellar, 
 she opened the day's work with prayer. The 
 prayer was for the Armies of France, for the men 
 who were giving their lives on the red fields of 
 war so that the country which they loved might 
 be freed from the yoke of the invader. She 
 prayed that God might continue to protect them, 
 she prayed for the soldiers who died, the Allied 
 soldiers first of all, but also as befitted Christians, 
 for those against whom they were waging war. 
 
 Then she told a story, a story with a moral 
 which she had often told before to the little chil- 
 dren of Goblin Town. 
 
 "One day," said the Mother Superior, "there 
 were a number of children coming back from 
 school, little French children, just like yourselves, 
 who learned their lessons just as you are learn- 
 ing yours, in a cellar, in a little village far north, 
 where the Germans are always firing their big 
 shells. On their way home, they stopped at a 
 shrine by the roadside to make their devotions. 
 One little boy, the eldest, said the words of a 
 
176 The Dough Boys 
 
 prayer and the others repeated it after him. It 
 was the Lord's Prayer, the grandest prayer of all, 
 and at that moment the Germans began to shell 
 the field near the shrine. But the brave little chil- 
 dren did not run away. Instead they remained 
 there to finish their devotions while the splinters 
 of shells flew over their heads. 'Give us this day 
 our daily bread,' said the little boy, while the oth- 
 ers repeated it after him. 'And forgive us our 
 trespasses as we,' he said, and then stopped, not 
 being able to proceed. He tried again but the 
 result was the same. A third time he tried. 
 'And forgive us our traspasses' 
 
 " 'As we forgive those who trespass against 
 us,' said somebody who had come up behind them. 
 The children looked round and there they saw a 
 stranger, a tall courtly man in the uniform of a 
 Belgian officer. And that man, my dear chil- 
 dren," said the Mother Superior with tears in her 
 eyes, "was Albert, King of poor unhappy Bel- 
 gium." 
 
 Lessons followed and the little tousled heads 
 nodded industriously over their books and slates, 
 while the good nuns moved amidst the children, 
 giving help where it was needed, pointing out mis- 
 takes in composition, grammar and spelling. The 
 work of the day went on with coolness, calmness 
 and order. The shells were falling outside in the 
 
Goblin Town 177 
 
 Square of Goblin Town, but down in the hidden 
 cellar there was absolute peace ; the children were 
 getting through their lessons and nothing dis- 
 turbed them. 
 
 A few moments' drill was gone through before 
 the little ones were dismissed for dinner. The 
 Mother Superior took charge of the parade in the 
 cellar, and saw that the children lost no time in 
 getting their gas-masks over their heads when she < 
 gave them the order. On this occasion the good 
 woman could be stern. If a child's gas-mask was 
 torn she would go back with the delinquent to his 
 cellar and see that his parents chastised him. 
 But on an occasion like this, chastisement was a 
 kindness in disguise for the life of a child often 
 depended on a perfect gas-mask. 
 
 Down in the cellar the children, armed against 
 the attack of German gas, were like little gob- 
 lins. In the dark mysterious underground cham- 
 ber, uniformed in their masks, the little ones were 
 like eerie beings of a dream. War had turned 
 the village into a heap of ruins and its inhabi- 
 tants into goblins. 
 
 Burke, billeted in a cellar with his mates, had 
 come out to the Square, just in time to see the 
 children who had finished their morning lessons, 
 rushing along the streets to their homes. Here 
 
178 The Dough Boys 
 
 was war at last, he thought, war in all its horror 
 and pathos. For these people he had come out 
 to fight, for these little children he had come 
 across seas to do battle. All, all had come. 
 Toughey the Colonel, Casey the Top-sergeant, 
 Sullivan the big Irishman, Stiffy the young Cock- 
 ney, and he himself, Burke the young boy from 
 college. Now he felt that he knew the purpose 
 of the war, the great Cause for which all the men 
 had come out to fight, the righting of the 
 wronged, the uplifting of the fallen. And as he 
 thought of this, the boy felt a great wave of ten- 
 derness sweep through his being. He loved all 
 his mates and all the men in the regiment, even 
 the Colonel at whose suggestion his mouth had 
 been washed out with brown soap and water. 
 
 He returned to his billet in the damp cellar. 
 In the cellars found unoccupied the Americans 
 were quartered, and here for a space they set- 
 tled themselves down and thought of the near 
 hour when they would go into the trenches and 
 fight the enemy as the soldiers of other countries 
 had been fighting him for several years. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad that the hike is at an end," 
 said Burke to his mates when he returned. 
 " 'Twas a heavy trek and uphill work all the way. 
 We started in the morning and you felt as light 
 
Goblin Town 179 
 
 as a bird with the pack on your back not trou- 
 bling you in the least. But the derned thing 
 seemed to be getting heavier every step. Fif- 
 teen miles straight with a sixty pound pack on 
 your back and your rifle on your shoulder is no 
 cop as Stiff y says." 
 
 "More than that on yer back," said Sullivan. 
 "At least I had more than that on my back. And 
 it seemed to be getting heavier and heavier every 
 yard. And the road was so narrow all the way. 
 Glory be ! I saw at one point iv the route seven 
 four-mule teams stuck in the ditch and lookin' as 
 if they'd stick there till the war was at an end. 
 The first day was bad, the second worse and the 
 other days that followed worse than them that 
 went afore." 
 
 "But yer didn't seem to mind it much," said 
 Stiffy. "Whenever I looked at you, you had that 
 bloomin' clay as yer call it in yer moosh and when 
 it wasn't there ye were singin' like a bird." 
 
 "Maybe that was true, for if the flesh was weak 
 the spirit was willin' and I had to keep up the 
 pride iv the battalion," said Sullivan. "It's pride 
 that held me up, the pride iv a Kingarrow man. 
 It's a great help in times iv trial. That and the 
 song iv ours that's a grand one entirely." 
 
 Sullivan raised himself from the damp floor 
 
180 ' The Dough Boys 
 
 of the cellar and sat on his trench helmet and 
 opened his mouth and sang : 
 
 "The Infantry, the Infantry, with the dirt behind their 
 
 ears, 
 The Infantry, the Infantry, they can't get any beers, 
 The Cavalry, Artillery and bloomin' Engineers, 
 They couldn't lick the Infantry in a hundred thousand 
 
 years." 
 
 "A good song that," said Stiffy, when Sullivan 
 became silent. "It's wot'll show the other blokes 
 wot we are when it comes ter the job." 
 
 "And the job's near at hand now," said Sulli- 
 van. "And it's about time that we were takin' 
 a bit iv the fightin' on our shoulders. And we'll 
 not do so bad, I warrant ye, with plenty iv elbow 
 room, an open field and no favour." 
 
 "You're a beggar for fighting, Sullivan," said 
 Burke. "A regular atavism." 
 
 "A what?" asked the Irishman. 
 
 "An atavism," said Burke. "A return to kind. 
 You've got the same instincts as your progen- 
 itors, the gorillas." 
 
 "Thanks very much for yer opinions, Mr. 
 Burke," said the Irishman in a voice of mock 
 annoyance. "And be the cut iv ye, ye aren't far 
 removed from the first Burke iv Kingarrow, him 
 that was hung for stealin' a hen from a lone 
 widow woman, the name iv Anna Ruagh " 
 
Goblin Town 181 
 
 "Kingarrow again," said Stiffy sarcastically. 
 "Are you thinkin' iv the place always ?" 
 
 "Always," said the Irishman. "And now more 
 than ever. For this is a great night, the night 
 before we get into battle." 
 
 "By God ! it's the first time that I've ever really 
 wanted to kill the Germans," said Burke. "When 
 I came across to France and saw Mud-wallow, I 
 felt that it was a guy's game to come so far to 
 fight for the place " 
 
 "Give it to the Germans and pay them for takin' 
 it, was my opinion when I set my eyes on it for 
 the first time," said Stiffy. 
 
 "Just like myself," said Burke. "But now 
 when I see these poor creatures, the women and 
 children sleeping in cellars and sticking to their 
 homes that are falling down over their heads, I 
 think different. I do want to fight now, if not 
 for the country of France, at least for the people 
 of France. They're well worth dying for." 
 
 "So said Father Connor a while since when I 
 met him out on the street," said Sullivan. "He 
 was round the place speaking to the women and 
 children, comforting them and tellin' them to 
 bear up. But be the same token 'twas more than 
 he himself could do to bear up. I met him after 
 he had finished speakin' and the poor man was 
 heart-broke with the tears runnin' from his eyes. 
 
182 The Dough Boys 
 
 And no wonder, for that woman that he was 
 speakin' to had lost both iv her children be a shell 
 that fell on them two days ago, and she also lost 
 her man in the wars. Killed in the fightin' he 
 was a couple iv months back. And now she 
 hasn't one soul in the world sib iv her own." 
 
 "Wot does this 'ere Father Connor do?" asked 
 Stiff, after a long silence, glancing at Sullivan 
 but putting the question to Burke. Burke did 
 not exactly know what the priest did and Stiff 
 knew that Burke did not know, so he put the ques- 
 tion loud enough to reach the Irishman's ears. 
 
 "I don't know anything about the man's du- 
 ties," said Burke. "I don't often see him and 
 when I do see him or hear him talk, he's always 
 on to something about sanitation and cleanli- 
 ness. He's a regular Board of Health. He 
 would send the robes on the figure of the Statue 
 of Liberty to a steam laundry. But as to what 
 else he does, I don't know." 
 
 "Well, I do know what he does and his jobs 
 never come to an end," said Sullivan, shifting 
 his form on the straw on which he lay and light- 
 ing his pipe. "He does everything. For me- 
 self I don't see him often, and then only once a 
 week when we're out iv the line. That's at the 
 servin' iv the Mass." 
 
 "And all the other days of the week are his 
 
Goblin Town 183 
 
 off-days, I guess," said Burke. "All that time 
 he'll maybe be getting ready his straight-from- 
 the-shoulder stunts." 
 
 "Ah, ye'll find that he'll be everywhere when 
 ye're up front," said Sullivan. "Be the get iv 
 the man I know that he'll be near at hand when- 
 ever he's wanted. But at the present time he 
 hasn't as much to do as shows every time he does 
 it. Iv course he goes round to the hospital givin' 
 consolation to them that needs it and this is a 
 job he has to do every day. Then if a man wants 
 to have his advice he is always ready with it and 
 always at home to the seeker. Take his day's 
 work back a bit when we were at Mud-wallow. 
 In the mornin' he made the rounds iv three hos- 
 pitals about six miles apart. Then he ran back 
 to Headquarters to see about the officer's mess 
 and get things up to snuff. In the afternoon he'd 
 be at hand when the mails were bein' distributed 
 to see that the men get their letters. After that 
 there was more orderin' to do for the officer's 
 mess, the layin' out iv the menu for the next day, 
 the answerin' iv a lot iv personal letters, letters 
 from mothers that want to know why their sons 
 aren't writin' and things like that. Then the fel- 
 low that was down on his luck came along and 
 poured his troubles into the chaplain's ears. And 
 all this and more is part iv the day's work for 
 
184 The Dough Boys 
 
 Father Connor. He's also the buryin' officer as 
 well as the official statistical officer, the man who 
 has to get off the first iv every month the reports 
 on the strength iv the battalion and things like 
 that. At the present minit he's gettin' ready with 
 the mass in the barn to give sinners like me the 
 grace iv God afore we get up to the fightin'." 
 
 Sullivan lit his pipe. 
 
 "I'm goin' to service to-night, and if ye think, 
 either iv ye iv comin' ye'll be as welcome as the 
 day," said Sullivan. "But no monkey tricks 
 mind, if ye do come." 
 
 "I'll come," said Burke. "I'm bored stiff in 
 this place." 
 
 "I'm on the job, too," said Stiff. "Lead the 
 bloomin' way, ye red-haired hulkin' Irishman, 
 and we'll come wiv yer." 
 
 In the evening the three men went out together, 
 out into the village street over which the dark- 
 ness had already fallen, and which was clustered 
 in thick masses round the base of the ruined 
 houses, and over the rubble which lay in the gut- 
 ters. Big holes yawned in the cobbled streets, 
 telling of the enemy shells which had recently 
 dropped there. The villagers who still remained 
 in the place were snug in their cellars and wait- 
 ing resignedly for the deadly shells which might 
 at any moment drop on their shelters, blowing 
 
Goblin Town 185 
 
 them in on top of the brave patient people. Here, 
 as in many another village near the firing line, 
 was a courage which was almost divine, the cour- 
 age of a great people, the people of France. 
 
 A heavy rain was falling, splashing in the pud- 
 dles and dripping from the shattered roofs of the 
 humble homes. As the three men went along, 
 they could see lights gleaming up from the cel- 
 lars where the people were sitting down to the 
 sparse meal of the evening. 
 
 "War is a hellish game," said Burke, and his 
 voice was the voice of a man who had suddenly 
 stumbled across a great truth. "We in the 
 States are at war, but we'll never know what war 
 is. While we're out here fighting, we know that 
 our people at home are all right, that they can go 
 to bed at night in their comfortable rooms, know- 
 ing that they will waken safe and sound in the 
 morning. And we who are here know that and 
 it gives us comfort in the fight. But think of 
 the Frenchman, the father or the husband, up 
 front, who knows that his children and his wife 
 are doomed to a place like this. It only means 
 that he is on one sector of the front and his peo- 
 ple, the woman and her children, are on another 
 part of it. It's hell, hell. It's war as our country 
 will never know it." 
 
 "It's the divil's own game," said Sullivan. 
 
186 The Dough Boys 
 
 "And them that was responsible for it will have 
 a bad case for themselves when they come afore 
 the throne iv God." 
 
 They came to the barn in which service was to 
 be held and went inside. The place was crowded 
 with men in brown who knelt on the floor of the 
 barn. A candle gleamed near the door, but its 
 light failed to pierce the unfathomable corners 
 of the building. As the three men knelt down, 
 two more candles were lit and placed on a box in 
 the far corner of the room. On this was placed a 
 crucifix with its silver Christ standing out in 
 strong relief, making the bareness of the room 
 more apparent. The candles placed on either side 
 of the crucifix flickered feebly and seemed almost 
 on the point of going out. Two glasses, scarcely 
 good enough for the meanest cafe, stood on the 
 altar and these contained the sacrificial water 
 and wine. On a block of wood which stood on 
 the ground was placed a towel for the washing of 
 the priest's hands. The Colonel was in the front 
 near the altar, but not kneeling on the board 
 which had been placed there by the men for his 
 convenience. In church or battle he was a man 
 who refused to avail himself of privileges denied 
 to his men. Father Connor dressed in cassock 
 and stole stood by the Colonel waiting for the 
 
Goblin Town 187 
 
 moment when all would be ready for the Sacri- 
 fice. 
 
 The floor was very damp and the wet pierced 
 through the soldiers' knees as they knelt in pray- 
 er. Overhead the rain pattered on the tiles and 
 from the distance came the sounds of the never 
 ceasing guns. 
 
 The priest commenced, speaking in the low 
 quiet tones of a man convinced of the greatness 
 of his vocation. One sacrifice accompanied the 
 other, the sacrifice of Mass and the sacrifice of 
 War. 
 
 In the barn there was a silence which cast a 
 veil of solemn grandeur over the scene. A feel- 
 ing of awe swept over the congregation: souls 
 communicated one to another their own sensa- 
 tions, and under the mutual influence all were 
 melted together in religious brotherhood. 
 
 Here the stateliness of the church was lacking, 
 but nothing could be more impressive than the 
 ceremony in the barn. All the worshippers felt 
 that something bad and unworthy was passing 
 from them and something great and good and 
 holy had come to take the place of what had gone. 
 
 When the sacrifice was at an end, prayers were 
 said for the good and bad of all nations, for 
 friends and enemies and for the guilty of all the 
 world. The idea was a grand one, almost sub- 
 
188 The Dough Boys 
 
 lime. In it was the essence of the Christian re- 
 ligion, the best of all the religions in the world. 
 And the worshippers prayed fervently for grace 
 and courage to do all that was right and good, 
 all that was holy and divine. 
 
 By midnight they would be in the trenches, 
 clean lipped, manly boys who were prepared to 
 die, not for a country but for the world, for those 
 who lived in comparative luxury away in the 
 States as well as for those who cowered in the 
 cold cellars outside in the village. The Sacra- 
 ment of the Mass was to the worshippers a prep- 
 aration for death, and death is a sacrament. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE TRENCHES 
 
 THEY had often heard about and often read 
 of it, and now it was their turn to know 
 it — the life of the trenches, the manner of 
 life followed by the men who stood behind the 
 parapet, with bayonets fixed and bullet ready as 
 they waited for the horror which any passing 
 moment might give rise to. Newspapers spoke 
 about the life of the firing line, spoke cautiously, 
 saying very little and using many words to say 
 it. Papers were not very interesting. 
 
 They told of Armies and forgot the man. 
 
 The Ninety-ninth Division attacked such and 
 such a place and inflicted serious losses on the 
 enemy. 
 
 The Eighty-eighth Division maintained their 
 positions against overwhelming artillery fire, etc., 
 etc. 
 
 It was in this manner that the Press spoke of 
 operations, and people read the reports unmoved. 
 A division was too big. It was something in 
 which the readers could have no personal interest. 
 
 189 
 
190 The Dough Boys 
 
 What they wanted to know was how the indi- 
 vidual man carried himself in the conflict, how 
 the individual was fed, how he kept his health, 
 how he was amused and how he was treated. 
 
 Did B enjoy his drink of spirits now if it 
 
 was possible to procure it ? Had L 's appetite 
 
 grown less in the trenches ? Did N , who was 
 
 a very nervous boy at home, maintain himself as 
 well as other men who were apparently cut out 
 for rougher work in life than he? What is a 
 charge like? Do men go forward and rush at 
 the Germans and stick them with the bayonet till 
 the hands that wield the weapon become limp 
 with weariness? These questions are eternally 
 in the minds of those who remain at home, the 
 wives and mothers. 
 
 Do men like to kill one another ? Does it give 
 them any satisfaction to knock a fellow creature 
 out of existence? They think of their sons and 
 their husbands, the boys whom they fondled and 
 the men whom they love. What will happen to 
 them over there? Will they be fit to endure it 
 all? Will they be wounded? Will they be killed ? 
 So the mothers and wives ask themselves at 
 home, ask themselves at dawn when they rise 
 from their restless sleep, and ask themselves at 
 night as they turn their heads over and over, 
 their hearts heavy, their eyes sleepless on tear- 
 
The Trenches ^ 191 
 
 wet pillows. To all comes the agony of war, to 
 the men struggling against the enemy and to the 
 women who wait. But there is no agony equal 
 to the agony of the latter. 
 
 The dough boys left Goblin Town at midnight 
 and made for the scene of war, and fear was in 
 their hearts, that fear which is the inheritance of 
 man, the fear of death and the pain of death. 
 And up there in the district of fighting and war, 
 Fear was written large over the whole country- 
 side, the fear which is responsible for the build- 
 ing of trenches, the placing of a steel plate in 
 front of the sniper's post, the camouflage disposi- 
 tion which conceals the gun position, the dug-out 
 and the sap, the protective colouring of a uni- 
 form, the trench helmet, the first-aid packet, the 
 morphia tablet, the march by night when it is im- 
 possible to see at the distance of a hundred yards. 
 
 Men have learned to use the rifle and the bayo- 
 net in order to protect their own skins. Self- 
 preservation makes for war, and all the move- 
 ments of war, and self-preservation is rooted in 
 man. The normal man, under normal conditions, 
 will not kill his fellow. Something must urge 
 him on to fight; either patriotism, hate, a sense 
 of vengeance, or of fear. The latter is the most 
 potent force. Fear, whether the fear of other 
 men's opinion, or the fear of death, goes a great 
 
192 The Dough Boys 
 
 way towards making men fight, although it in no 
 way breeds a love of fighting or a lust of killing 
 in a man. The soldiers fight privily as if ashamed 
 of the action. And when the conflict is at an 
 end the man cleans his bayonet, for that which 
 has soiled the steel, brings up memories that are 
 best forgotten. 
 
 The battalion to which Sullivan, Burke, and 
 Stiff belonged made its way towards the trenches. 
 The night was pitch-dark and very cold, with a 
 piercing sleet sweeping against the ears of the 
 men as they marched along the shell-ripped 
 roads, where the broken limbers and disbanded 
 guns were lying. And the road, which by day 
 was quite desolate of traffic and living things, was 
 now crowded with limbers, carts, waggons and 
 guns. The world round Goblin Town woke to 
 life in the darkness. 
 
 The marching men could see, whenever their 
 eyes looked to the front, a forest of trees stand- 
 ing grey and ghostly in the light of the star-shells 
 which rose and fell over the trench lines. But as 
 the men moved off the roads into the fields and 
 out on the duck-boards, their eyes seldom moved 
 that way. The needs of the moment occupied 
 their whole consideration, for progress was very 
 difficult. Movement was a task for giants and 
 not for the men who were trying to make their 
 
The Trenches 193 
 
 way across the dumb desolate levels towards the 
 firing line. 
 
 The night's rain seemed to increase, and it fell 
 incessantly, slashing against the men's overcoats 
 and beating a tattoo on the steel helmets. These 
 helmets were tilted sideways so that the rain 
 was thrown off and kept from sliding down the 
 men's backs. The wind struck aslant the soldiers, 
 beating their faces, chilling their bodies, and 
 flicking the water from the ground against their 
 legs. The whole country seemed to be one gigan- 
 tic pond, and streams which started from no- 
 where in particular seemed to be rising, rising, 
 spreading their overflow on the levels. The ser- 
 geants who led each line of men probed the 
 ground in front of them with long poles, testing 
 the earth for the next step. The slime for the 
 most part lay hip-deep, and a false step might 
 land a man in a shell-hole which would cover 
 him to the chin. When a soldier fell in his mates 
 pulled him out, muddy to the ears and wet to the 
 skin. He would stand for a moment, shake him- 
 self like an animal fresh from its wallow, and 
 try the action of his rifle with clay-encrusted fin- 
 gers from which all feeling was well-nigh gone. 
 Then he would go forward again. 
 
 Machine-guns were busy, barking spitefully 
 from the trees of the forest, trees as unsubstantial 
 
194 The Dough Boys 
 
 as a dream. The bullets whipped the water round 
 the men and whisked it about, in spurts of spray. 
 Here and there the deeper ponds flung their wa- 
 ter sky-high when the shells fell on them. In 
 front a dull, pink glow lit up the murk, flaring out 
 luridly at times, then dying away like the colours 
 of a cloudy western sky when the sun is sinking. 
 The glimmering ray of colour was due to a heavy 
 barrage which seemed to be sitting on the trenches 
 in front. 
 
 The air was full of the smell of powder. The 
 acrid fumes which caused the nostrils to smart 
 and the eyes to water refused to rise and the 
 heavy night atmosphere pressed it down like a 
 blanket. The men choked and spluttered as they 
 plodded through the slime. 
 
 Here and there in the near distance a clump of 
 trees, rent and riven, took on strange shapes. The 
 ruined branches stretched downwards in re- 
 proach and despair as it seemed, pointing at their 
 fellows that lay on the ground like rotten corpses. 
 
 The cold clammy slush ran down the men's 
 boots and settled round their heels. They ad- 
 vanced one step, testing the ground in front with 
 the butts of their rifles. They were walking on 
 slippery duck-boards a moment ago, but now they 
 had lost them and were out on a desert of slime. 
 Their feet — how weighty they were ! — stuck into 
 
The Trenches 195 
 
 the mud which gripped them with greater ve- 
 hemence at each remove. Sullivan and his two 
 mates felt as if they were slipping down the 
 throat of some voracious monster that was try- 
 ing to swallow them. Burke went in to his thighs 
 and Sullivan tried to pull the youngster out. The 
 move was successful but even as the rescue was 
 accomplished Sullivan himself went in. A rifle 
 was held out to him, and holding grimly by the 
 butt, he was pulled out of danger. 
 
 "Glory be! but this is a divil iv a job!" he ex- 
 claimed as he reached ground which was com- 
 paratively firm. "And to think that we used to 
 grumble when we were nice and comfortable at 
 Mud-wallow." 
 
 "Wot price Mud-wallow now !" said Stiffy. 
 
 "And some of us told lies to get into this fix!" 
 said Burke sadly. 
 
 "What fools there always has been in this 
 world iv ours!" said Sullivan philosophically. 
 "And there'll be fools till the end iv time !" 
 
 "One thing's certain anyway," said Stiff, "and 
 that is that we're to get there." 
 
 They were going onwards even while they were 
 speaking. Forward, forward towards the 
 trenches for which they had set out hours ago, 
 trenches which even now seemed distant and far 
 away. But one thing was written plainly in front 
 
196 The Dough Boys 
 
 of those men. They had to get there no matter 
 what the cost. And on and on they went, gasp- 
 ing and groaning but certain, for that was their 
 way, and the spirit and fire within nerved them 
 to the task. They had to go forward, daring dan- 
 ger and death, for it was all in the day's work, 
 this day and every day for a long time to come. 
 
 Sullivan stumbled across the trench suddenly, 
 tripped over the parados and fell in. He dropped 
 on the top of a soldier who was standing there, 
 his helmet pulled well down over his eyes, a cig- 
 arette in his mouth. 
 
 "What the hell are you doin', ye derned round- 
 er, droppin' into the trench lifie this," said the 
 man. "Damned nearly stickin' yourself on my 
 bay 'net." 
 
 "Glory be ! I didn't know that I was so near," 
 said Sullivan. "I thought that firin' iv shells 
 ahead iv us was over this trench." 
 
 "Lucky for us it's not," said the man. "If 
 'twas you'd find yourself in a funny pickle. There 
 wouldn't be much of the derned trench left." 
 
 "But where is the firin' at all?" asked Sullivan. 
 "It looks as if it was right away in front iv us." 
 
 "So it is," said the man. "The trenches round 
 this quarter go round and round and it's hard to 
 know where you're stuck. It's hard to get the 
 lie of the land right here. This is the front 
 
The Trenches 197 
 
 trench and the Hineys are across the way, two 
 hundred yards off or so." 
 
 "Are they quiet?" asked Burke, in the tone of 
 a seasoned veteran. 
 
 "Not so bad," said the American on whom 
 Sullivan had tumbled. "But they're getting a bit 
 riled for some reason or another. 'Twas quiet 
 for the first three days after we took it over from 
 the French, but some of our boys went out to 
 have a look into the trenches across the way and 
 one of them didn't come back. Killed, I think. 
 That was enough for them. They learned that 
 new blood was across the way so they have been 
 sending some whango's across to-day and yes- 
 terday. And to-night an outpost reported a party 
 coming our way and we let them have some pills 
 just to teach them etiquette. And they'll be 
 troublesome to-morrow I bet." 
 
 "But why is it that there are so many men in 
 this get-up," asked Sullivan, pointing to a soldier 
 in the uniform which he himself wore on one 
 great occasion at Cambrai. "Are some iv them 
 so much in love with the place that they will not 
 leave it. I've got me eyes on half a dozen iv them 
 since I came in here." 
 
 "They're givin' us instructions, nursing us," 
 said the man. "They tell us what's what, then 
 what to do when we have anything to do and 
 
198 The Dough Boys 
 
 all the rest of it. 'Twas a funny job the first day. 
 When a shell would come across right here, they 
 would hold up their hand for us to listen to the 
 sound of it. Then as the sound drew nearer they 
 would turn to the man next them and say : 'Ar- 
 rive' and that meant that the shell had been fired 
 by the Hineys. But when a shell went off the 
 other way these guys would say 'Depart.' The 
 only 'Depart' for us that have been in here for 
 the best part of a week is the 'Depart now.' Back 
 to billets or whatever we're goin' to be shunted 
 to." 
 
 The soldiers who had been in for some time 
 now filed out and after a while the trench was 
 left to the men newly in. Officers accompanied 
 by French soldiers made the round of the trench 
 portioning out the alley of war to the dough boys, 
 appointing sentries and giving instructions to the 
 men. Burke was appointed sentry opposite the 
 dug-out which had been claimed by Sullivan, a 
 roomy shelter, the floor of which was compara- 
 tively dry. In there men could sleep when they 
 had an hour to spare for the repose of the body. 
 
 Burke, his hand holding his rifle, leant against 
 the parapet and stared out on the dark field in 
 front, which looked strange and unearthly in 
 the darkness. So this was the line of battle, the 
 trench world about which he had often read, and 
 
The Trenches 199 
 
 had heard so much. But for some unaccountable 
 reason the youngster was not thrilled by his sur- 
 roundings, by the locality hallowed by gigantic 
 undertakings which went to the making of death- 
 less history. To him everything seemed tame and 
 insipid and nothing of importance was happening. 
 A few starshells went up in air over the Ger- 
 man trench, rose lazily as if weary and as lazily 
 sank to earth again. There was no shelling and 
 no rifle fire in the sector at present, though away 
 on the right the lurid anarchy of war was lighting 
 up the heavens. But this riot was very far away 
 and had nothing whatever to do with his world. 
 He leant his arms on the parapet and looked 
 back at the dug-out. There were some seven or 
 eight men in there, sitting round a brazier on 
 which a tin of steaming liquid was bubbling. 
 They were certainly rapidly accommodating 
 themselves to the routine of war. One of the 
 men was French, a tall soldier with a heavy dark 
 moustache and a cigarette between his lips. He 
 sat on the floor well to the rear with his back 
 against the wall, taking part in the conversation 
 and speaking in English. Probably he was an 
 interpreter. Sullivan was seated near the brazier, 
 his helmet well down over his eyes and his black 
 clay in his mouth. Stiffy was superintending the 
 tin on the fire, and when he looked out at the 
 
200 The Dough Boys 
 
 trench Burke could see his face, red as a comb, 
 
 wreathed in smiles. 
 
 "Glory be! but it's the long while that ye are 
 takin' to make that coffee, Stiffy," said Sullivan. 
 "I want a wee sup iv it afore I go on duty out 
 there in the trench." 
 
 "You 'old yer bloomin' tongue, Ginger," Stiffy 
 replied. "Ye're always muckin' about when ye're 
 not wanted." 
 
 Sullivan got to his feet and came out into the 
 trench and went up to Burke. 
 
 "Feelin' it a bit slow, me boy?" he enquired. 
 
 "It's derned slow," said the youngster. "If it's 
 going to be like this all the time we might as 
 well have stopped at home." 
 
 "So me brother Fergus said in one iv his letters 
 when it was quiet on the Western Front and the 
 next day after the letter was received my mother 
 got word from the English War Office that he 
 was killed, God rest him," said Sullivan. "Things 
 go slow here at times and then they flare up just 
 as if the lid iv hell had been lifted up all iv a 
 sudden. But I hope that we won't get into much 
 trouble here this tide, for after all's said and done 
 we green ones are not all able to bear the strain 
 iv bein' shoved into it at once. It's too like sendin' 
 a newly clipped sheep into a snowstorm or a man 
 
The Trenches 201 
 
 without his sea-legs into a hurricane, on a sailin' 
 ship." 
 
 "But you'll be able to stand it no matter when 
 it comes," said Burke. "You're a born soldier." 
 
 The unexpected happens in the trench area 
 more often than in any other part of the world. 
 Just as Burke spoke the field in front became 
 alive with dark figures who rushed towards the 
 parapet. Bombs burst and bullets sizzed through 
 the air. The dug-out cleared rapidly and the 
 dough boys rushed into the trench, their bayonets 
 in their hands and the red rage of war in their 
 hearts. The Germans were raiding the Ameri- 
 can line. 
 
 A big man, looking a giant in the darkness, 
 stood on the rim of the parapet over Burke's head 
 and lunged at the youth with a bayonet. Burke, 
 with an instinct which suited the occasion, shoved 
 his own bayonet forward, parried the hostile 
 weapon aside and fired. The big man sank to the 
 earth with a groan, fell forward and almost 
 dropped over the sand-bags into the trench. 
 
 "That's the way to settle them, the divils from 
 hell," Sullivan shouted, as with one mighty 
 spring he clambered over the parapet out into 
 the open and into conflict with a German who sud- 
 denly rose from the earth and crossed bayonets 
 with him. The struggle was a short one. At the 
 
202 The Dough Boys 
 
 first lunge Sullivan slipped past the German's 
 guard and his bayonet landed in something soft. 
 The unhappy man shrieked and fell to the ground. 
 
 Burke, not knowing how it happened, found 
 himself out by the side of Sullivan and fighting 
 with all his strength against the attacking forces. 
 The whole place seemed to be filled with them. 
 They swooped up from all quarters, from the 
 front, from the left, and the right. All around 
 the rifles of attackers and attacked were speak- 
 ing simultaneously, bombs were bursting and 
 shrieks of pain rent the air. 
 
 "Fire, boys! Keep firing!" some one was 
 shouting, and the men recharged their weapons 
 and fired at point blank range. Out in front 
 shadows rose from the ground, arms swung to 
 fling the bombs, and then the shades became one 
 with the earth. One man rushed up as if trying 
 to reach the lip of the trench and he met the noz- 
 zle of Burke's rifle. The youngster fired two 
 rounds and the man collapsed clumsily, groaning 
 like a beast in agony. 
 
 "They're hookin' it," Sullivan laughed, turning 
 to Burke. "It's all over, bar the shoutin'. 
 They've had enough iv it!" 
 
 Which was quite true, for the raiders, who 
 had depended on the success of the undertaking 
 in one mad rush, had got more than they bar- 
 
The Trenches 203 
 
 gained for. They were now getting out of it as 
 fast as they were able. But the job was a risky 
 one, for the machine guns were sweeping No 
 Man's Land, and to get back to their home trench 
 in the face of such a leaden storm was a difficult 
 task for the Germans. 
 
 "They're away out iv it now for good," said 
 Sullivan, turning to Stiffy, whom he discovered 
 standing at his side. "But it'll be a hard job for 
 them to get back to their own lines." 
 
 "They'll lie in the shell-'oles all night, I sup- 
 pose," said Stiffy. "And I s'pose we'll 'ave ter 
 sit up all night waitin' to see if they'll come 'ere 
 again. 
 
 "Sittin' up, ye limb," said Sullivan. "Sittin' 
 up. Glory be! my bucko, do ye think that ye're 
 in a hotel?" 
 
 "There's a man out in front," said Burke, who 
 stood a little distance away. "He's bending down 
 over the wounded, or the dead. It won't be a 
 Hiney!" 
 
 "Well, we'll soon know," said Sullivan, and he 
 walked towards the mysterious figure which 
 showed in the darkness and stood out clearly out- 
 lined whenever a starshell went up. Sullivan 
 went up to him and thrust his bayonet forward. 
 
 "Who're ye at all ?" he asked, guessing at the 
 
204 The Dough Boys 
 
 same time that the man was an American, an 
 officer. 
 
 "That yourself, Sullivan?" asked the man, 
 touching the Irishman's bayonet with his hand 
 and pushing it gently aside. 
 
 "Father Connor!" Sullivan gasped. "Were 
 yerself in the ructions, father?" 
 
 "No, no, Sullivan," said the padre. "I'm not 
 a man like you, never happy only when you're 
 righting with some one. But here's a wounded 
 German and if you help me to carry him in to the 
 trench I would be very thankful." 
 
 The next day was a violent day in the sector 
 which the American troops occupied. The Ger- 
 mans began to shell at dawn and continued the 
 firing till late afternoon. All manner of projec- 
 tiles were used in the bombardment, shells heavy 
 and light, bombs flung by trench mortars, rifle 
 grenades and bullets. The trenches in parts were 
 churned beyond recognition, communication 
 trenches were filled in, wire entanglements were 
 torn to shreds, parapets blown in on the defend- 
 ers and dug-outs flung sky-high. But at three 
 o'clock in the afternoon all this ceased and quiet 
 reigned over the firing line. The men stood to 
 their posts waiting, waiting. What the next 
 moment might bring forth they did not know. 
 
The Trenches 205 
 
 Probably the German infantry would attack and 
 try and capture the position. 
 
 The cold rain was still falling over the whole 
 country, dropping down insistently as it had been 
 dropping for the last three days. It was at a 
 quarter past three when the word came to the 
 men. A nest of machine guns had been located 
 by the watchers in a forward observation post 
 and this nest had to be raided. Where was this 
 nest? was the question asked by the men when 
 the rumour became current in the sector. The 
 question was soon answered. 
 
 Sullivan learned of it as he was hard at work 
 repairing a parapet which had been blown in by 
 the enemy in the bombardment. It was Top-ser- 
 geant Casey who brought the news. 
 
 "We're wanting some volunteers for a job," 
 he said, stopping opposite Sullivan. 'We're go- 
 ing to raid that church out in front and rustle 
 out the rounders who are holding it." 
 
 "Is it there that the machine guns are?" asked 
 Sullivan. "In that church?" 
 
 "In it or somewhere near it," said Casey. "The 
 men who volunteer for the job will cross the 
 parapet five hundred yards to the left and going 
 that way they can get up to the place without be- 
 ing seen. The machine guns can enfilade the 
 
206 The Dough Boys 
 
 trenches here but along there they can do noth- 
 ing." 
 
 Sullivan looked at the church which lay half 
 way between the opposing trenches, at the foot 
 of a hillock. Five hundred yards along, the home 
 trench stood on this hillock, and the ground 
 slipped down from it towards the German trench. 
 A hundred yards out from the American position 
 the ground fell abruptly, and in the dip the church 
 was situated. It was still standing, although lac- 
 erated by shell fire, and to the left it looked out 
 on the position in which Sullivan was now stand- 
 ing. The house of God had a commanding posi- 
 tion and machine guns placed near it could sweep 
 the American lines to the right. 
 
 "I'm with ye in the job," said Sullivan. 
 
 'And I'm on it like a bird," said Burke, who 
 had been listening to the conversation. 
 
 'And wot 'ave I done ter be left in the cold?" 
 asked Stiffy. 
 
 "The three of you are volunteering!" said the 
 sergeant. "Well, get some bombs and get ready 
 for the work. I'll ask some more to help us in 
 the job." 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IN CHURCH 
 
 SULLIVAN looked at the altar and then, as 
 if recollecting where he was, he put his 
 black clay pipe back in his pocket, buttoned 
 the flap and crossed himself. Leaning against 
 the wall where it jutted out under the statue of 
 the Blessed Virgin, he peered down the nave 
 towards the door that let in the murky light of 
 the Spring evening. 
 
 Nobody was in sight as yet, so he drew back 
 his head and waited. 
 
 The floor of the church was littered with rub- 
 ble. Near the altar rails a heap of glass was ly- 
 ing in the dust. This, no doubt, belonged to the 
 sanctuary lamp, long since broken in the holo- 
 caust of war. All the windows were shattered 
 and powdered dust lay in heaps on the sills. A 
 figure of Christ with one arm gone stood on the 
 altar, and on the altar steps lay a statue of St. 
 Joseph with the lower part of the body blown 
 away. Nave and aisle were deserted. Nobody 
 was about, but outside the air vibrated with the 
 
 207 
 
208 The Dough Boys 
 
 sound of rolling artillery fire, interspersed with 
 the hard crackling of machine guns and rifles. 
 
 Sullivan waited for his mates to come up. He 
 was one of the first in the charge and alone he 
 entered the church which stood between the Ger- 
 man lines and his own. He found it as deserted 
 as the grave. The Germans were not in posses- 
 sion and the dough boys would be there present- 
 ly. As he waited for their coming he looked 
 down the nave again and saw a figure in field- 
 grey at the door. Raising his rifle Sullivan fired, 
 and the man tottered and fell. Another appeared, 
 and another, till the door was crowded with 
 Germans. But they did not come forward. They 
 stood in a solid, compact, almost impenetrable 
 mass, packed together and conversing in a low 
 voice. Outside stumbling could be heard and 
 subdued talking. 
 
 Suddenly the forms in field-grey by the door, 
 rushed up the church towards the altar. Sulli- 
 van unhooked a bomb from his equipment and, 
 leaning back, he flung it into the first wave of 
 Germans. It exploded in the midst of them, and 
 a number fell, yelling like beasts in agony. 
 
 The Irishman flung a second bomb. A flash 
 lit up the church as if the door of a furnace had 
 been suddenly opened and then shut. A shower 
 of bullets was the reply and these hit against the 
 
In Church 209 
 
 floor, the walls, and altar rails, burying them- 
 selves in the wood, chipping the walls and rico- 
 chetting off the iron. The volley was violent and 
 of a nature to make the boldest shrink. The nave 
 was crowded with Germans. 
 
 "Keep it up, Sullivan. Keep it up !" 
 
 The dough boys were coming in to help their 
 comrade. Crowding through the door of the 
 sacristy they rushed out in front of the altar 
 with a young officer leading, a revolver in each 
 hand. 
 
 "On them, boys !" he yelled. "With the bayo- 
 net! Forward, America!" 
 
 He rushed the enemy furiously, firing madly, 
 Sullivan like a mad thing, at his heels, bellow- 
 ing like a bull and lunging with his bayonet. It 
 was almost impossible for any man to see what 
 was taking place. The smoke of rifles and ex- 
 ploding bombs filled the building; it was one pell- 
 mell of helmets, figures in grey and khaki, flashes 
 of fire and glints of steel. Men groaned madly 
 as they fell and were trampled on as they lay 
 on the floor of the church. It was a fight dogged 
 and desperate, a fight to the finish. Men who 
 had lost their bayonets were strangling one 
 another fighting with their fingers and fists. 
 Wounded men on the floor pummelled one anoth- 
 er's faces. Everybody held the church and no- 
 
210 The Dough Boys 
 
 body held it. On the left over the broken seats 
 the Americans made their way towards the door,, 
 on the right, under the wall to which the pictures 
 of "The Stations of The Cross" were nailed, the 
 Germans were holding their own and making a 
 little progress towards the altar. 
 
 Suddenly affairs took a turn for the better as 
 a fresh party of Americans came in by the main 
 entrance of the church. For a moment the new- 
 comers stood still and took stock of the fight. 
 
 "This way, ye limbs!" Sullivan shouted as he 
 chanced to behold them. "Plenty for yees to do 
 up here!" 
 
 The new men raced up the church into the 
 thick of the fight. The young officer who led the 
 first attack was still there, offering himself to 
 every blow of the combat. Bathed in perspira- 
 tion, his eyes lit up, his mouth foaming, his uni- 
 form unbuttoned, bleeding, muddy, magnificent, 
 he was the veritable spirit of war. 
 
 "On them !" he yelled. "Get them out of here !" 
 
 Under the leadership of the young officer the 
 dough boys multiplied themselves and each man 
 was worth ten. The Germans on the right gave 
 way, turned and fled. Their mates followed 
 them and the doorway became, a shambles. Here 
 the beaten men were met by their own reinforce- 
 ments just coming in to take part in the fight, 
 
In Church 2H 
 
 and they could not get out. They were shoved 
 in backwards against the bayonets of the Ameri- 
 cans. 
 
 "More iv them," said Sullivan. "They are 
 comin' in their hundreds." 
 
 "The more the merrier," said Stiffy, ramming 
 a clip of cartridge into the magazine of his rifle. 
 
 The enemy came in again and again he was 
 shoved out, leaving the wounded behind on a 
 floor slippery with blood. A third time they at- 
 tacked, driving the holders of the church back 
 as far as the altar steps on which the mutilated 
 statue of St. Joseph was lying. The struggle was 
 very bitter for a full quarter of an hour, but at 
 the end of that time Top-sergeant Casey discov- 
 ered a German machine gun hidden in a corner 
 of the chapel, its muzzle thrust through a little 
 opening in the wall, and commanding the Ameri- 
 can trenches to the right. It was when Casey 
 was shoved backwards by a determined thrust 
 of the Germans that he stumbled across the gun 
 which was covered over with a piece of sack- 
 ing. Casey fell on this, and in his efforts to 
 regain his feet he pulled the sacking away and 
 discovered the gun which it hid. 
 
 "Come, boys !" he yelled. "Out with them now 
 and it will be the last time." 
 
 He led the attack, exhorting the soldiers to 
 
212 The Dough Boys 
 
 follow him and they followed him, chasing the 
 Germans clean out into the open. Then the gun 
 was taken in from its emplacement, an ammuni- 
 tion belt was rooted out from some corner, and 
 with the maxim fixed in the doorway the Ger- 
 mans did not dare to attack again. In the eve- 
 ning when darkness had fallen the Americans 
 withdrew, taking their wounded away with them. 
 They reached their own trench and Sullivan, 
 Burke, and Stiffy made for their own dugout. 
 The youngsters, dead beat, sat down on the floor 
 and sighed deeply. 
 
 "It was a streak of pure hell," said Burke. 
 
 "'Ell, bloomin' 'ell it was," said Stiffy. "I 
 don't want to 'ave every day like this bloomin' 
 one." 
 
 " 'Twasn't such a bad one," said Sullivan. 
 "I've got a bit iv a sooveneer out iv the ruction." 
 
 As he spoke he threw the souvenir which was 
 attached to his belt to the floor. 
 
 "A German 'elmet," said Stiffy. "Where did 
 yer get that?" 
 
 "At church," said Sullivan. 
 
 "And what are you going to do with it?" asked 
 Burke. 
 
 "I'm goin' to give it to wee Gustave if I ever 
 meet the wee rascal again," said Sullivan. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 tfHE ROUTINE OF WAR 
 
 AT the end of four days they were relieved 
 from their first spell of trench warfare 
 and at the hour of midnight the men stole 
 out secretly into the back area, down the slip- 
 pery duck-boards which stretched across the 
 field, on to the shell-harried road, into the hap- 
 less village known as Goblin Town, and out of 
 Goblin Town to a less shattered village further to 
 the rear. Here they stopped for a little while 
 and went through various forms of drill with 
 bayonet, gas-mask and bomb. All their appur- 
 tenances of war, from field shoes to overseas caps 
 and trench helmets, were inspected, and deficien- 
 cies in kit were made good by the supply ser- 
 geant. Woollen shirts and socks were served out 
 to the men ; their bodies were inspected and com- 
 mented on by the doctor and nothing escaped his 
 attention. Teeth, toes, legs, lungs, faces, and 
 feet were examined. Here on the fringe of the 
 line little blisters and little sores assumed great 
 importance in the eyes of the medical man, 
 
 213 
 
214 The Dough Boys 
 
 though back in Mud-wallow a soldier with such 
 minor ailments was sent on parade with the other 
 men. But here it was different. The fighter 
 must be fit for only the fit can endure the life 
 and trials of the trenches. 
 
 There were hours of amusement in the back 
 area. Concerts were held nightly in the Y. M. 
 C. A. huts and these places of entertainment were 
 well patronised by the dough boys. Boxing en- 
 counters took place in barns, and men fought 
 one another with the gloves as if the fighting in 
 the trench areas was not sufficient for the young 
 vitality of the men in khaki. Football was 
 played, lectures were given, and many another 
 entertainment was allowed to the men. And they 
 enjoyed themselves after the boring life of the 
 trenches, where they were compelled to stick to a 
 bay or dug-out for hours and days on end. 
 
 Then there were various other forms of 
 amusement, sports which appealed to the particu- 
 lar man and not to the battalion as a whole. Sul- 
 livan, for example, was very keen on bayonet 
 exercises. The bayonet was his favourite weapon 
 of war and he loved it with the same measure 
 of love which a billiard player bestows on his 
 favourite cue or a dog-fancier bestows on his 
 favourite dog. 
 
 "Nothin' like it at all in the world, when ye're 
 
The Routine of War 215 
 
 in the middle iv a ruction," he often said when 
 he played with his beloved weapon in the com- 
 parative quiet of a billet. "Lead may be a good 
 way iv downin' yer man at fifty yards or a hun- 
 dred, but when it comes to close work there's 
 nothin' like the steel. Elbow room and an open 
 field and no favour is all to me likin' and if I'm up 
 against a man that shows fight I'll be ready to 
 save him from the bullet just to try his hand at 
 the steel. A lovely weapon ! Glory be ! the love- 
 liest weapon iv all." 
 
 Sullivan was also very fond of children, par- 
 ticularly of the little French children who lived 
 in the ruined villages at the back of the firing 
 line. These made friends with the big red-haired 
 Irishman the moment they met him, called him 
 Toolivan and adored him. When he returned 
 from the firing line he always brought presents 
 for the mites, buttons, badges and clasp-knives. 
 "I got them from the dirty Germans," he would 
 explain. "They did not want me to bring the 
 buttons and the badges to little Pierre or Mar- 
 ius" (or whatever the child's name to whom he 
 was talking at the moment happened to be) "so 
 I killed them with my bayonet and took the badges 
 or buttons from them when they were unable to 
 prevent me." With these words he would empty 
 his pockets of the souvenirs and the children 
 
216 The Dough Boys 
 
 thus honoured would be very pleased, not so 
 much on account of the souvenirs but because a 
 German had been killed to make a present for 
 them. One thing only he would not part with 
 and that was the German helmet for little Gus- 
 tave. 
 
 Stiffy spent his spare time when in billets in 
 making love to the French girls whom he met 
 in farm-house, estaminet or boulangerie. He 
 was a handsome boy and his meteoric love affairs 
 generally prospered. He had a new love in every 
 billet and he also had one, a fixed star, away far 
 back in New York. One day when the war is 
 at an end he is going to marry the girl at home. 
 So he says. 
 
 Stiffy was a generous lover and a dandy one. 
 When his heart succumbed to the sparkling eyes 
 of a girl, his clothes assumed fresh importance 
 in his eyes and his badge of crossed rifles disap- 
 peared as it often disappeared before. Every 
 supply sergeant knows that when a badge or 
 hat-cord is indented as lost in action an Ameri- 
 can heart is lost in France. The Higher Com- 
 mand, though cognisant of this fact, is silent on 
 the matter. One day the home Press may waken 
 up and institute a searching enquiry into the 
 wastage of badges, hat-cords and regimental but- 
 tons, etc., etc. Then will a reform in war expendi- 
 
The Routine of War 217 
 
 ture begin, and the dough boys will make fight 
 with the enemy badgeless and buttonless in the 
 interests of State economy. But this side of the 
 matter never troubled Stiffy. It was beyond his 
 ken. What is the good of hat-cords and badges, 
 he might argue? A man can fight just as well 
 without them. And anyway the campaigning 
 hat is going out and the overseas cap and the 
 trench-helmet has come to take their place. 
 Despite these changes in the appointments of the 
 men, Stiffy's affairs of the heart flourished ex- 
 ceedingly. 
 
 Probably next to his love of fistic play, with 
 the fists bare or camouflaged in gloves, Burke's 
 favourite pastime lay in the writing of verse. 
 The boy was the regimental poet and Laureate 
 to Stiffy in the latter's love affairs. When Stiffy 
 was in love Burke was always eager to write the 
 verses suitable for the occasion. It was quite 
 an easy matter, for Burke merely changed the 
 girl's name. It was Pascal to-day, and Babette 
 or Fifi to-morrow, and as the syllables in each 
 name were generally the same in number it in no 
 way interfered with the rhythm when this change 
 was made. The writing of the poems amused 
 Burke, the placing of them at the feet of the fair 
 ones pleased Stiffy as well as the girl, though 
 the latter very seldom understood them. 
 
218 The Dough Boys 
 
 Life in billets agreed with the men, but the 
 trenches bored them. When it was quiet up front 
 with the men garrisoning the lines the days went 
 by with monotonous slowness. The trenches 
 were dull — eternally dull. Only when the men 
 got out of them, to cross the top or withdraw 
 to billets was there any change. Now and again 
 on listening posts or on patrols, there was a cer- 
 tain amount of romance — romance which began 
 when the men crawled into No Man's Land, and 
 ended when they returned to their trench. But 
 on the whole the life was slow, as slow as the 
 mud which littered the fields of war. 
 
 Mud, the eternal, endless mud is everywhere. 
 With the wet weather of early Spring the plains 
 of France were one waste of slush and slime. 
 The trenches were ditches and the shell-holes 
 soggy cess-pools. Here, on this sticky adhesive 
 spread of semi-liquid, the war for the righting of 
 nations and the freedom of the world went on. 
 
 Over all this dreary spread of country an ener- 
 getic and ardent life was stirring. Brave soldiers, 
 apparently unconscious of their own work, know- 
 ing not self-pity nor self-glory, lived a life heavy 
 in physical suffering, doing their duties soberly 
 and steadily, and enduring despite all the worry 
 and trouble of their existence. In the trench 
 which stretched from the Alps to the sea, a world 
 
The Routine of War 219 
 
 within itself, having customs and codes of con- 
 duct peculiar to its limitations, lived the various 
 people who were engaged on the Big Job, the 
 mightiest job which the world has even encoun- 
 tered. 
 
 The French, in their dark blue uniforms were 
 there, natives of many a province, slow speaking, 
 prudent Normans, excitable Gascons, melancholy- 
 Bretons, tenacious in affairs of war, quick-tem- 
 pered and enterprising men from Lorraine and 
 the Vosges, and the soldiers from Loire, inured 
 to hard work and slow in the making of friends. 
 Here were the British, made up of soldiers from 
 various countries, dour kilted men from the Scot- 
 tish highlands, quick tempered impetuous Irish- 
 men, and men from the mountains and mine dis- 
 tricts of Wales and from the shops and mills of 
 England. Then others were there, the valiant 
 Portuguese, the fighting Canadians, the gallant 
 Australians. Into the trenches in which these 
 men were fighting a new force had arrived, the 
 men from America, the tight-lipped, clear-eyed 
 men who had entered the war for right and lib- 
 erty. 
 
 And now that they had arrived they began to 
 learn all which the other countries had been go- 
 ing through for years. They came to know the 
 terrible, mud-covered field of battle. They were 
 
220 The Dough Boys 
 
 seeing it all in back area and up front. The 
 shelling of villages, the destruction of churches, 
 the killing of women and children. The life of 
 the firing front was opened to their eyes, the hard 
 tasks which ordinary mortal men had to perform, 
 not for a day or two but for months and years. 
 They were seeing it all, the infantrymen of 
 the Allied nations wading hip-deep through the 
 wastes of barren land, the labour companies a lit- 
 tle to rear, carrying duck-boards, shovels and 
 sand-bags, through slush and muck swept by 
 shell-fire, through mud that set all labour at 
 nought, and swallowed up railway and road as 
 soon as either were set down; gunners hurrying 
 their guns up to new emplacements, wheels sink- 
 ing to the axles, and horses eternally falling into 
 shell-holes, out of which they have to be hauled 
 by ropes taken up on limbers for that purpose, 
 transport drivers leading their ponies over gutted 
 road" swept by eternal rifle-fire, Red Cross men 
 carrying the wounded out on stretchers, stum- 
 bling over wires and tins, over the dead who lay 
 on the spongy levels; and over the litter of war, 
 which lay broadcast on the field of battle, cooks 
 crawling up in the darkness, carrying hot meals 
 and bags of rations to the fighting men, runners 
 who brought messages through the fiercest bar- 
 rage, signallers who laid the wire and the other 
 
The Routine of War 221 
 
 thousand and one men who worked at the serious 
 labours of war. The Americans came to know 
 the life of the front and they came to take part 
 in it. And full of the magnitude of the task 
 which confronted them they set themselves to 
 their labours. One thing was certain. The Big 
 Job had to be done. The goods had to be de- 
 livered. 
 
 One night when he was in the trenches Sulli- 
 van had a letter from Madame Gaucher, the 
 mother of little Gustave. It happened that he 
 had been out on sentry duty and when he re- 
 turned to his dug-out he found his two mates sit- 
 ting there in front of the brazier on which a heap 
 of wood was blazing merrily. 
 
 "A letter for you," said Burke, and he handed 
 a green envelope to the Irishman. 
 
 "Is there a mail in?" asked Sullivan. 
 
 "Not a real mail," said Burke. "A few letters 
 have come but not from over there. Your letter 
 was posted in this country." 
 
 "And it was," said Sullivan as he bent down 
 and looked at the postmark by the light of the 
 brazier. "It's from Bomb-dump that it came too. 
 Well, I wonder who it's from ?" 
 
 He sat down on the ledge by the wall and 
 opened it, pulled the letter from its covering and 
 Jooked at it. 
 
222 The Dough Boys 
 
 "Written in French !" he exclaimed. "And it's 
 not in me head to know what the words mean. 
 And the name at the bottom is C-a-t-h-erine 
 G-a-u-cher, Catherine Gaucher, the woman of the 
 cafe. I never knew that her name was Catherine. 
 . . . Well, it's yer job to read it for me, Burke." 
 
 Sullivan handed the letter to the youngster and 
 the latter read it, translating it as he read. 
 
 "My dear Monsieur Sullivan," it ran. "It is 
 quite a long time since you have gone away from 
 here to the war, but neither Gustave nor myself 
 have forgotten you and your two friends. Gus- 
 tave, the little rascal, wishes that you were back 
 here again, to throw him up in the air and catch 
 him in your two strong arms when he came down 
 again. And he goes out to the corner of the 
 street every day for he believes that you may 
 come back here at any moment. Sometimes when 
 he hears the guns in the distance he looks at me 
 and says, 'Toolivan fighting the Boche and getting 
 a helmet for me.' He believes that a helmet may 
 come to him any day now. So if you have al- 
 ready got a few to spare we should be very 
 pleased if you sent one from some post-office 
 when you come out of the trenches for a rest. 
 
 "I still knit in my spare time and have just 
 finished a muffler and a pair of socks. I am send- 
 ing these to you in a parcel and they should ar- 
 
The Routine of War 223 
 
 rive about the same time as this letter reaches 
 you. Let me know when you get them and tell 
 me if you are pleased with them. But I have 
 no doubt about you liking them for there is no 
 woman in the village who can knit as well as 
 myself. I am also knitting some more comforts 
 for your two dear friends, the little boys who 
 always laughed and were so happy. Good luck 
 to them and you. . . ." 
 
 "Well, Burke, me laddybuck, there's a job for 
 ye now," said Sullivan, when Burke had finished 
 reading the letter, "and that job is to put into 
 French the reply to the letter iv that decent 
 woman Mistress Gaucher. I'll now tell ye what 
 to say to her." 
 
 "But the socks and the muffler haven't arrived 
 yet," protested Burke. "And since they haven't 
 come you don't know what they are like." 
 
 "Thank God I wasn't born a Yankee," said 
 Sullivan, taking his little black clay from his 
 pocket and lighting it. "A Yankee won't thank 
 ye for a gift unless he sees the colour iv it and 
 the Burkes iv Kingarrow are not iv that get at 
 all. And ye're descended from them I'll go bail. 
 But the transplantin' iv the kin hasn't been good 
 for ye, me boy." 
 
 "You're always talking about Kingarrow," 
 
224 The Dough Boys 
 
 said Burke. "Can you never get the place out 
 of your head?',' 
 
 "Impossible that," said the Irishman. "The 
 place where ye were born and bred has always 
 the pull iv yer heart-strings." 
 
 "Then why didn't you stay there?" asked Stiff. 
 "Ye big ginger headed hulkin' Irishman, ye're 
 always talkin' about yer bloomin' 'ome but ye take 
 jolly good care not to live there. Why is that?" 
 
 Sullivan reached out a mighty hand, gripped 
 Stiff and drew him towards him. Then in a most 
 casual manner he placed him on the ledge by 
 the dug-out wall and sat himself on the boy. 
 Stiff resigned himself to his plight and lay there; 
 it was impossible to move. This trick was a fav- 
 ourite one with Sullivan, and the Cockney was 
 entirely at his mercy. 
 
 "Now get yer pencil and writin' pad, and write 
 as I dictate," he instructed Burke. The Yankee 
 discovered a sheet of notepaper in a niche in the 
 wall. This he placed on his knee and waited 
 ready for Sullivan's words. 
 
 "Begin," he said. 
 
 "My dear Mistress Gaucher," Sullivan dictat- 
 ed. "I am sending you these few lines hopin' ye 
 are well as this letter leaves me at present. As 
 I write this I am sittin' in a dug-out on the West- 
 ern front on the top iv that limb Stiff that was 
 
The Routine of War 225 
 
 not unbeknown to ye when we were stoppin' in 
 Bomb-dump at the heel iv the month late past. 
 It's right in the middle iv the ructions that we 
 are now and Glory be! but it's a rale hulabaloo 
 here when we get into the middle iv the laddy- 
 bucks, and we're not plaishams at the job iv 
 parry-point and get home when we've elbow room 
 on an open field. I haven't got a helmet one iv 
 the kind ye're wantin' ; one with an eagle on the 
 top iv it. French helmets is easy to get but they're 
 no good at all. They're just like stir-about pots 
 in Ireland with the legs broken off iv them 
 be " 
 
 Burke ceased writing, lay back against the 
 wall of the dug-out and looked at Sullivan. 
 
 "What sort of gibberish is this that you're 
 spouting?" he asked. 
 
 Sullivan paused in the middle of his long wind- 
 ed sentence. 
 
 "Can't keep pace with me, Burke?" he asked. 
 
 "Of course I can't, for you speak like a leather- 
 neck," said the youngster. "I have to translate 
 you into English and then the English into 
 French. That's a tough proposition. Go slow 
 and I'll maybe keep up with you." 
 
 "I'm yers to command," said Sullivan. "Lave 
 out the ruction bit and the helmets for a little and 
 
226 The Dough Boys 
 
 get on to the present that the kindly soui sent on 
 to me. Are ye ready?" 
 
 "Slip it out." 
 
 "Well, my dear Mistress Gaucher, I got yer 
 parcel and it did me heart good to see what it 
 contained," Sullivan continued. "The socks that 
 ye sent were a perfect fit and it almost looks as 
 if me feet were made for them. And the muffler 
 is a God-send for not alone does it keep me throat 
 warm, but it also goes round me chest and round 
 me ears. I'm as comfortable in it as if I was 
 back home in me own townland iv Kingarrow sit- 
 tin' be the turf fire with the flames goin' up the 
 chimney and me bare feet planted in the middle 
 iv the ashes. And it was the good fires and the 
 strong houses that they had in Kingarrow when 
 I was a boy. There was one man and he had a 
 house . . ." 
 
 "Madame Gaucher won't be interested in drivel 
 of this sort," said Burke. "You keep shifting 
 from one thing to another like a girl in a hosiery 
 store." 
 
 "And 'e keeps shiftin' his carcase all over 
 me," said Stiff, from the ledge on which he was 
 lying. " 'E's sittin' right on the top o' my bread- 
 basket now and 'e's arf chokin' me." 
 
 Sullivan rose, drew Stiff from under him and 
 helped him to his feet. The young fellow coughed 
 
The Routine of War 227 
 
 and spluttered and rubbed the dirt which had col- 
 lected on his tunic off with his hand. Then he 
 put up his fists, dived in and caught Sullivan a 
 blow on the side of the face. The Irishman 
 rubbed the place where the blow touched him and 
 exclaimed. "It's early for flies yet. One iv them 
 lighted on me face." 
 
 "Sit down or get out of it altogether, Stiffy," 
 said Burke, looking down the lead-pencil which 
 he held in his mouth, on the letter for Madame 
 Gaucher. "Don't interrupt Sullivan in the let- 
 ter which he's dictating." 
 
 Stiffy subsided into the background and lit a 
 cigarette. Sullivan looked into the bowl of his 
 pipe and recommenced his dictation. 
 
 "It's very hard getting on with this bit iv a let- 
 ter, my dear Mistress Gaucher, for that limb Stiff 
 is interruptin' every time I speak. His back-chat, 
 lip, and sauce would be fit to make a saint under- 
 board, turn in his coffin and run heltery skeltery 
 for his life and self-respect. In a graveyard near 
 to me own home there's a saint buried and this 
 good man " 
 
 "Sullivan " 
 
 "What will it be now, Burke?" asked the Irish- 
 man. "Is it that ye cannot keep pace with me?" 
 
 "I can't go on with this drivel," said the young- 
 ster. "If you allow me I'll write the letter my- 
 
228 The Dough Boys 
 
 self and then tell you what I've written when it's 
 done." 
 
 "All right, me bucko, go ahead with it and let 
 me know when the job's complate," said Sullivan. 
 "But spake the good woman soft and let her 
 know how much I value the socks and the muf- 
 fler. And don't forget that they're on me and 
 givin' me aise in me work. And add to that that 
 I have a German helmet in me possession and say 
 that it was the devil's own job to get hoult iv it. 
 Tell her that everybody has a trench helmet but 
 they're few and far between, them that has a rale 
 German helmet with the eagle on the top iv it." 
 
 "But why speak about trench helmets?" asked 
 Burke. "That will not interest the woman." 
 
 "No, but it makes me heart aisy if I know that 
 no person will threp on Gustave that it's the rale 
 goods they're deliverin' to him when they give 
 him the shoddy article instead iv the rale one," 
 said Sullivan. 
 
 "But nobody will do that," said Stiffy. 
 
 "Ah ! ye don't know the world and the ways iv 
 the world, me boyo," said Sullivan. "People are 
 up to all sorts iv tricks in this country and they're 
 full up iv lies and deceit." 
 
 "You're jealous of anybody else who tries to 
 get a bit of the boy's love, I see," said Burke. 
 "Isn't that so, Sullivan?" 
 
The Routine of War 229 
 
 "Maybe then ye're not far wide iv the mark," 
 said the Irishman. "And it's no harm I'll be doin' 
 him by feelin' in that way. . . . Anyway," he 
 continued after a short pause, "ye go on and write 
 the letter for me and I will send it off to Bomb- 
 dump when ye have got it ready for me." 
 
 As he spoke he went across to one of the many 
 niches in the wall and took out a parcel which 
 was hidden there. He unloosed the string with 
 which it was bound, pulled the upper covering 
 apart and took out the helmet. Holding it on his 
 knee he blew away the specks of dust which had 
 gathered on it. Then, with the sleeve of his tunic,, 
 he rubbed the eagle which shone with the bril- 
 liancy of polished gold. For twenty minutes he 
 kept rubbing and polishing the souvenir. Then 
 he wrapped it up again in the paper, tied the 
 string round it and put it back in the niche of the 
 wall. The other men took no notice of him at 
 his work for they had seen him perform this job 
 once every day since the helmet had come into 
 his possession. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 TH£ COMING OP SPRING 
 
 IT was yet dark in the trenches of L sec- 
 tor, but a faint subdued flush showed in the 
 eastern sky far away behind the enemy lines. 
 Stars were twinkling coldly overhead, and a keen 
 wind rustled along the sides of the trench. Vague 
 mutterings and rumblings could be heard in the 
 dug-outs; the men already warned for stand-to- 
 arms on the fire-step, were snatching a further 
 moment's repose, hugging with miserly desire at 
 a few minutes' extra rest. Top-sergeant Casey 
 came running along the trench shouting at the 
 top of his voice. "Show a leg, you rounders!" 
 he called. "Get out to it !" There was in reality 
 no need to hurry for this particular part of the 
 sector was, for the time being, a very quiet one. 
 But the sergeant ran because a brisk race was 
 the most effective means of driving away the 
 sleepy feeling which had been fostered in his 
 head by the narcotic odours of the dug-out. 
 
 The men turned out yawning and rubbing their 
 eyes, then broke into a brisk run round the near 
 
 230 
 
The Coming of Spring 231 
 
 traverse and back again to their posts by the bay- 
 onets on the fire-steps. Sullivan looked across the 
 parapet, fixed an indifferent eye on the trenches 
 in front which showed as the distances revealed 
 themselves, then began in an undertone upon a 
 ragtime chorus which his mates took up in the 
 same low key. 
 
 A shell-scarred spinney, where the trees were 
 flung broad-cast by high concussion shells, lay 
 on the left wrapped in shadow and hiding many 
 mysteries. In No Man's Land the flesh of the 
 landscape was torn from its ribs, and the levels 
 were pitted with gaping shell-holes. 
 
 The air was cold and keen. The men pulled 
 their helmets down over their eyes, covered their 
 chins with the collars of their overcoats, and leant 
 against the parapet. Now and again they dozed 
 off for a moment and woke guiltily with a start. 
 Nobody had noticed them. They dozed again. . . . 
 The east flushed crimson, the German trenches 
 across No Man's Land showed dark against 
 the glow, and stood out distinctly. Presently the 
 gunners would blow those trenches to pieces. . . . 
 A sniper's bullet ripped a sandbag, and a shower 
 of fine white dust swept into the trench. No one 
 paid any heed. . . . The birds were out hopping 
 from prop to prop of the broken barbed wire en= 
 tanglements. A lark soared into the air pouring 
 
232 The Dough Boys 
 
 out an ecstatic song ... a white mist circled 
 round the spinney, and the gashes in the trees be- 
 came more distinct. . . . Looking south the men 
 could see the ground which was covered in some 
 recent charge and there, limp and indifferent, 
 lay many a friend and foe in the silent commun- 
 ion of death. The birds were singing above them. 
 Sullivan, Burke and Stiffy looked out on No 
 Man's Land, and now that the sun was up the 
 field seemed to have taken on a hue fresher and 
 greener than they had ever noticed there before. 
 Their eyes rested on the trenches in front, and 
 they could see dark wreaths of smoke curling up 
 over the shattered parapets. The Germans were 
 making ready their breakfasts. And far behind 
 the enemy trenches could be seen other columns 
 of smoke, and dull thuds could be heard as if 
 shells were exploding where probably an ammu- 
 nition dump or a farm-house was on fire. 
 Though this was open to conjecture one thing 
 alone was certain : The fields were getting green, 
 the lips of the trench were graced by fresh young 
 grass and flowers were awakening Spring was 
 at hand. 
 
 The order to stand down was given, and the 
 men prepared their breakfasts. Braziers were lit 
 in the dug-outs, and the red glow of flaming coke 
 stood out in vivid contrast to the dark interiors. 
 
The Coming of Spring 233 
 
 Little wreaths of pale smoke curled up over the 
 trench, and the air was filled with the odour of 
 frying bacon. Stiffy, cook to his squad, was fry- 
 ing his bread in grease, and to judge by the ex- 
 pression on his boyish face he was very inter- 
 ested in his work. He looked happy, feeling the 
 influence of the spring, and nothing seemed to 
 trouble him. . . . The sniper's bullet hit the 
 sandbag again and a spurt of chalk was whisked 
 into the frying pan. The youth looked up and 
 swore whole-heartedly, then he bent to his work 
 again. 
 
 Spring was with the men. The birds sang on 
 the barbed wire entanglements, the green grasses 
 peeped coyly out from between the sandbags on 
 the parapet, the flowers would show presently in 
 the open spaces between the lines. The trenches 
 were becoming dry ; the parapets were no longer 
 crumbling down with the rain, and it was possible 
 to climb over the parados at night, without fling- 
 ing half the structure into the muddy alleys where 
 the soldiers kept eternal watch on the lines across 
 the way. A man could sleep at ease in a dug-out 
 now, for the roofs no longer weighted by the rain 
 had ceased falling in on the hapless sleepers. 
 The tottering walls gathered strength, lowering 
 spirits were braced up ; the men saw the sun and 
 
234 The Dough Boys 
 
 were glad. The time of the singing birds was 
 at hand, and their song was of victory. 
 
 "Well, this mornin' iv all mornin's has the 
 tang iv Spring in it," said Sullivan, as he sat 
 down on the firestep and rubbed his chest with 
 his hand. "And it's good, me boys, to hear the 
 birds, the larks and the cushydoos singin' iv the 
 love that's in their hearts for one another. And 
 it puts me in mind iv me own home away in King- 
 arrow," — he continued to rub his chest as if 
 something was tickling him beneath the woollens 
 — "when the corn was sproutin' up and the blos- 
 soms were puttin' their wee heads out on the 
 bogs and the — Glory be ! but it seems as if a pis- 
 mire had got down between me shirt and me 
 skin." 
 
 "And I've got something tickling me," said 
 Burke. "Right on my back, whatever it is. But 
 just wait till I get the goods on him. Then he'll 
 know what he's about." 
 
 "And I've somefing as well as you two," said 
 Stiffy, thrusting up his sleeves almost to his 
 shoulders. "We've all got them whatever they 
 are." 
 
 Sullivan opened his shirt without a word and 
 peered inside. Burke lay down on the fire-step, 
 opened his collar and felt with searching fingers 
 between his shirt and skin. 
 
The Coming of Spring 235 
 
 "Nothing- doing," he said after a moment, and 
 he buttoned the collar of his coat again. 
 
 "Same 'ere," said Stiffy, pulling down his 
 sleeves. "Wotever it wos that I 'ad 'e knows 
 somefing about camouflage. Protective colour's 
 well in 'is line." 
 
 "Well, I've got him by the toes," said Sullivan, 
 picking something from his chest and holding it 
 between finger and thumb. It was a small insect 
 about the size of an ant and Sullivan's two mates 
 drew near to look at it. 
 
 "Met 'im before," said Stiffy. 'E's a great pal 
 o' Chinks as is on tramp steamers." 
 
 "But what is it ?" asked Burke, who came from 
 a home where such things were not known and 
 where they were never spoken about. 
 
 "What is it?" repeated the Irishman. "What 
 is it? It's an inimy iv ours in the trenches. It's 
 one iv them things that comes with war, just like 
 shrapnel or barbed wire entanglements. It's the 
 flannel-buzzard, the shirt hound, the back-biter, 
 the blood-sucker, the Boche. It's the divil out iv 
 hell, it's the blackguard that's known as the 
 cootie." 
 
 "I never heard of him," said Burke. 
 
 "Iv coorse ye haven't," said the Irishman, com- 
 miseration in his voice. "And for why wid ye 
 have heard iv him and ye such a young limb that's 
 
236 The Dough Boys 
 
 as yet hardly got ye're milk-teeth. But you'll 
 soon get to know him here. Once he comes, he 
 stays, and it's no peace at all he'll be givin' ye." 
 
 "Kill him then and we'll be all right," said 
 the youngster. 
 
 "That'll not do much good, for his posterity 
 will be comin' out on me woollens the morra or 
 the day after," said Sullivan. "It's not one then 
 but a whole tribe iv them that there'll be on the 
 rampage all over me." 
 
 "It's them as carries the trench fever about," 
 said Stiffy. "So the doctor said when 'e was 
 givin' a lecture to us on how to keep clean, the 
 other day when we were back in billets." 
 
 "Is this the thing which he was talking about," 
 said Burke. "I never thought that we'd meet 
 him here." 
 
 "We'll meet him many times afore we're fin- 
 ished with this job," said the philosophic Irish- 
 man. "It's war, and war breeds these all over 
 the world. And that's well in keepin' with the 
 old sayin' that there's nothin' no matter how good 
 but has its drawbacks." 
 
 "I used to have 'em when I was rovin' about 
 the world," said Stiffy. "And I know 'ow to get 
 rid o' em. The Doctor talks about steam laund- 
 ries and baths and fings, but none o' them is as 
 
The Coming of Spring 237 
 
 good as the simple plan of the sailor on the 'igh 
 seas." 
 
 "What way did ye get rid iv them?" asked 
 Sullivan. 
 
 "Simple as spendin' a dime," said the Cockney. 
 "We put the blockade on them, cut off their sup- 
 plies, put the goods on 'em as Bud says." 
 
 "Well, what was the way iv it," asked the 
 Irishman. "Give us the tip, for it may be iv use 
 in the near future." 
 
 "This was our plan," said Stiffy, a look of 
 gravity overspreading his face as he spoke. 
 "Cooties, as yer know, feed on man and man as 
 feeds on other living things doesn't like anyfing 
 to feed on 'imself. We were o' the same way 
 o' thinkin' and when we discovered the cooties 
 paradin' over our tummies we didn't like it. They 
 were always between our shirts and our skins. 
 If they weren't near our skins they wouldn't live. 
 See! So we turned our shirts and our woollens 
 inside out when we tumbled into bunk o' nights 
 and while we slept there was the poor 'ungry 
 cooties outside clamourin' ter get in. When we 
 woke in the mornin' we'd find them in after 
 'aving crawled through, round the flanks and 
 wherever there was an opportunity to get in. 
 Wot did we do then? We turned our woollens 
 again outside in and them as was in were now 
 
238 The Dough Boys 
 
 out, so they were as 'ungry as ever. When that 
 was done four times they were all dead from fam- 
 ine. Four times it 'ad to be done, but I once saw 
 a Chink as 'ad to do it seven times, afore 'e routed 
 'em. But that was cos his shirt was all 'oles." 
 
 "Stiffy, ye limb iv perdition!" shouted Sulli- 
 van when the story came to an end. "It's yer- 
 self that is the greatest liar that I've ever met. 
 Not a man in Kingarrow, and it's a grand place, 
 the townland iv me own, for me that can tell the 
 wildest stories in the world, can hold a candle to 
 ye when it comes to the barefaced story iv things 
 that have never happened by land or sea in this 
 wurld iv ours." 
 
 At that moment a corporal appeared carrying 
 in his hand a parcel which to judge by its trim 
 make-up and stamps had recently come through 
 the post. 
 
 "Sullivan!" he called as he came into the bay 
 where the men were just on the point of sitting 
 down to their breakfast. 
 
 "What will it be," asked the Irishman. "Is 
 that wee parcel for me?" 
 
 "Yes, it's for you, I think," said the corporal. 
 "Have you turned a Frenchman?" 
 
 " 'E was a Frenchman long ago," said Stiffy. 
 "When 'e went out in the uniform of a Soldy 
 Frongsee to fight the Hineys up at Cambry." 
 
The Coming of Spring 239 
 
 "Hold yer tongue, ye limb," said Sullivan, mak- 
 ing as if to strike the youngster. "And is it 
 that the letter's addressed in French that makes 
 ye ask that question, Corporal?" 
 
 "It's addressed to Mosoor Sullivan," said the 
 corporal, flinging the parcel to the Irishman. "I 
 suppose it's from some chick that you've been 
 falling in love with." 
 
 "It's from Mamma Gaucher be the look iv the 
 writin'," said Sullivan, catching the string which 
 bound the parcel between his hands and breaking 
 it. "And it'll be another pair iv socks I'll go 
 bail." 
 
 "It's our turn now, surely," said Burke and 
 Stiff in one voice. "Ye got the last parcel." 
 
 "It didn't reach me," said the Irishman, "but 
 this one has." 
 
 He opened the paper wrapper, drew out a pair 
 of socks and a muffler. 
 
 "Thinks that the mufflers wears out quick on 
 this job, does Mamma Gaucher," he said. "And 
 here's a letter stickin' in one iv the socks." He 
 threw the letter across the brazier to Burke. 
 "Read it, me bucko," he said. "It's written in 
 French, and that's a lingo that I'll never be able 
 to master." 
 
 Burke caught the crumpled roll of paper, 
 spread it out on his knee and read: 
 
240 The Dough Boys 
 
 My Dear Mr. Sullivan, 
 
 I thank you for the nice letter which you sent 
 me but I do not understand it. Two days before 
 it came I got the parcel intended for you, the one 
 with the muffler and socks in it returned to me. 
 The American gost-office said that the label had 
 fallen off and not knowing for whom it was in- 
 tended they looked inside, saw my name and ad- 
 dress and sent it back to me. You say in the let- 
 ter you sent that you got a parcel with socks and 
 a muffler so it seems that you got a parcel sent 
 by some other woman. But I am forwarding my 
 parcel back to you again and I trust that you will 
 find my socks better made and more comfortable 
 than the ones which you are wearing now. I 
 hope you are quite well and I hope that your two 
 mates are also in good health, the boy whom you 
 used to sit down on and the boy who used to 
 write the poems. Gustave and myself are always 
 looking for your return, and the little boy is long- 
 ing for his helmet, the one which you promised 
 him when you were here three months ago. . . . 
 Your friend, 
 
 Catherine; Gaucher. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE BLANKET 
 
 WEEK after week passed by and the 
 dough boys were getting quite accus- 
 tomed to the life of the trenches. They 
 had accommodated themselves to their new en- 
 vironment, adapted themselves to all its phases 
 and smiled grimly in the face of the most unto- 
 ward happenings. But the life had its joys, its 
 moments of mad delirious happiness as well as 
 its moments of despair. Men dared dangers and 
 accomplished wonders, faltered at times and 
 failed, feared death as healthy men feared it, 
 laughed at death as brave men laugh at it, longed 
 for home and all that it meant, wept for the sor- 
 row of others, pitied their mates and pitied them- 
 selves, committed petty crimes and effaced them 
 by deeds sublime in their self-sacrificial splen- 
 dour. The dough boy, Citizen in Uniform, had 
 the merits and virtues, the faults and failings 
 common to the ordinary human being. 
 
 Sullivan, Burke, and Stiffy had their hours of 
 joy and their moments of despondency. Burke 
 
 241 
 
242 The Dough Boys 
 
 was the man most often affected by the latter 
 state of mind. Only eighteen and just released 
 from school he was apt to feel the longing for 
 home-life more than either of his two mates. 
 Sullivan and Stiffy had been out on their own 
 for many years and both were inured to a life 
 that had practically no home ties. But with 
 Burke it was different. He had a great love for 
 his mother whom he had left only a few months 
 before and in the long dull days of the trenches 
 when the rain was falling and the clouds hung 
 low over No Man's Land, he felt a great home- 
 sickness well up in his being. 
 
 This was the state of the boy's mind one night 
 in the L sector when he came out to release Sul- 
 livan from his post as sentry. The night was a 
 very cold one, with the rain falling insistently 
 from the dark heavens, and the Germans had 
 been paying attention to the spot in the earlier 
 part of the night, throwing all kinds of explosives 
 across No Man's Land. 
 
 "Feelin' a bit down on your luck?" asked Sul- 
 livan, as the youngster took his place on the fire- 
 step. 
 
 "Just a little bit," said Burke, doing his best to 
 laugh. "It is a bit slow and a bit monotonous 
 here in weather like this." 
 
 "Sick and tired iv the whole business ye are, is 
 
The Blanket 243 
 
 it, me boy?" said Sullivan. "I thought that ye 
 might be f eelin' in that way with the night so wet 
 and the enemy across the ditch ready to come 
 over maybe at any minit. And yer thinkin' iv 
 yer own bit iv a home and yer mother and father 
 that are both waitin' for ye and wonderin' what 
 ye'll be doin' at this moment. It's natural, me 
 boy, that ye should be heart-sick and ye such a 
 youngster. But would ye go home now if ye got 
 the chance?" 
 
 "Give me the chance and see," said Burke. 
 "I'm real fed up." 
 
 "But would ye go if the chance was offered to 
 ye?" asked Sullivan. "If so ye have me sym- 
 pathy, and if not so ye have me respect. I, me- 
 self, came away from me own townland iv King- 
 arrow when I was a bit iv a cub eighteen years 
 iv age and no more, and Glory be! but the heart 
 was sad in me when I came to New York. 
 I was in swithers as to whether it would be 
 better for me to go back or stay in the new coun- 
 try. But I stayed, and Glory be! it was the 
 full homesickness that was in me at the time. 
 Maybe I was even sicker then than ye yerself 
 are now. What d'ye want to do? To go back 
 to New York, to see Fifth Avenue and churn yer 
 way through the crowd, and maybe to meet a 
 girl there that ye had sweet words with long afore 
 
244 The Dough Boys 
 
 the war? I understand the feelin', Burke, boyo, 
 understand it well, and better than most men can 
 understand it. I've a heart in me, but it doesn't 
 always show in me face. But for all that, ye 
 wouldn't go back if ye got the chance. It's cold 
 here and it's wet, with the wind runnin' along 
 the trench and the water iv the black sky creepin' 
 down yer neck, but for all that ye' re goin' to stick 
 it like a man. It's in the get iv ye to be a sticker 
 and, Glory be ! it's sure iv what I say that I am, 
 for I saw ye fight, me boy, up at Cambrai and it 
 was the fight iv a giant or a hero iv old that ye 
 made. And now, me boy, ye get into the dugout 
 and have a bit iv a rest and I'll take yer turn 
 here for the rest iv yer hour." 
 
 Burke did not answer Sullivan for a moment. 
 He was greatly touched by the big Irishman's 
 generosity and almost felt on the point of burst- 
 ing into tears. He was seeing Sullivan in a new 
 light and felt as if he could kneel down in the 
 slushy trench and worship the man. 
 
 "Thanks, old man," he replied after a spell. 
 "But I'll stay here until my turn's up. But I feel 
 better now, much better." 
 
 "That's the spirit," said Sullivan. "Now I'll 
 go into the dugout meself, seein' that ye won't 
 go, and I'll have a wee bit iv a rest fore it comes 
 to me turn to relieve ye. And Stiffy is out some- 
 
The Blanket 245 
 
 where, the limb, and of his doin' I've no knowl- 
 edge. I hope he's not stravaigin' over to the Ger- 
 man trenches, lookin' for souvenirs and gettin' 
 into all mischief. So it's in I'll be goin' and 
 leavin' ye to yerself for a wee while." 
 
 With these words Sullivan made his way to 
 the dugout, crawled inside and lay down. Sleep 
 comes easily to a man in the trenches and Sulli- 
 van was presently asleep, lying limp on the floor, 
 his face turned to the roof, his trench helmet 
 down over his eyes. 
 
 "Ye Sassenach ! Ye damned limb iv the divil 
 ye! Do ye think that me face is the parade 
 ground ?" 
 
 Sullivan aroused from his slumber by some- 
 body stepping on his nose, sat up in the dark dug- 
 out and lashed out into the gloom with a mighty 
 fist. But the blow lost itself in space, for Stiffy, 
 wise in the humours of his Irish mate, ducked 
 quickly to avoid punishment. 
 
 "Bliraey! I'm sorry, matey," he said in an 
 apologetic voice. "I thought that there was no- 
 body in 'ere till I felt myself tripping against 
 your nose." 
 
 "If I get a grip iv ye, me boy, ye'll find some- 
 thing trippin' against yer nose that will put ye 
 out iv action for good," thundered the irate Sul- 
 livan getting to his feet. "Here was I lyin' down 
 
246 The Dough Boys 
 
 snug and dramin' iv home when in ye comes and 
 stands on me face. Glory be ! I don't know what 
 the recruitin' sergeant was thinkin' iv when he 
 let the like iv ye pass for a soldier." 
 
 "But it's so bloomin' dark 'ere," Stiffy expos- 
 tulated. "I couldn't see anything." 
 
 "Then hold yer jaw and light the candle till I 
 see if it's on the casualty list that I'll be goin'," 
 said the Irishman. "Half iv me teeth are tramped 
 down me throat. . . . Ye'll find the candle up 
 above the door." 
 
 Stiffy went to the door as directed, fumbled 
 with his fingers under the sand-bag's which lay 
 across the roof-beams and found a stump of can- 
 dle, hardly the length of his little finger He lit 
 it, placed it in the neck of a bottle and looked at 
 his mate. Sullivan, who had been asleep a mo- 
 ment before, was standing upright now, his face 
 all covered with mud and a red streak showing 
 at the corner of his lips. 
 
 "That's what it is to be tramped on in the mid- 
 dle iv the night, Stiffy," he said, rubbing his 
 mouth with his hand. "Glory be! If I was not 
 a friend iv yours I'd lay ye across me knee and 
 begin operations with the scabbard iv my bay 'net. 
 . . . And where have ye been all the night, at 
 all? Ye disappeared at twelve o'clock, and now 
 is the first I've seen iv ye since then. What have 
 
The Blanket 247 
 
 ye been up to? I hope ye didn't go nosin' over to 
 the German lines, for a night like this with the 
 wet all over the ground is not a night to pay a 
 visit to our neighbours across the way." 
 
 Stiffy, who had retreated to the door after the 
 candle was lit, now came up to his mate. Sulli- 
 van had regained his temper and all danger from 
 the sudden blow of a heavy hand was at an end. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Sullivan," said Stiffy. "It was the 
 dark dugout and I was in a 'urry to 'ave a kip 
 'fore it was time for sentry-go." 
 
 "But where were ye, anyway?" Sullivan en- 
 quired. "I thought that something had happened 
 to ye, and though ye are the biggest limb unhung, 
 I would be sorry if ye left the platoon, even if ye 
 left it to go to the Courts iv Glory." 
 
 "Well, where was I ?" said Stiffy, with a know- 
 ing look. "First I would ask you ter 'ave a look 
 at that bundle on the floor." 
 
 Sullivan looked at the bundle to which Stiffy 
 pointed, then picked it up and pulled it apart. It 
 was an army blanket, and it had not been there 
 when Sullivan fell asleep. 
 
 "Well, where the divil did ye pick this up, 
 Stiffy?" he enquired. 
 
 "It's like this," said the youngster. "Last 
 night was so cold that I couldn't get ter sleep 
 for want of a blanket. 'Twould freeze the wheels 
 
248 The Dough Boys 
 
 off a tank. But this bloomin' night is even colder. 
 I don't know how the hang you can sleep, Sulli- 
 van." 
 
 "The climate iv Kingarrow gives a man a skin 
 fit for anywhere," said Sullivan, his thoughts fly- 
 ing back to the Irish townland in which he was 
 born and bred. 
 
 "Well, my skin wasn't fit to stand this night's 
 cold," said Stiffy. "When I get the shivers I 
 cannot sleep. I thought I could do with a blan- 
 ket, if I could find one. So I was out in the trench 
 about midnight when three men, snipers they 
 were, came back from some post or another, and 
 I knew the place where they 'ad been. Out in 
 No Man's Land it was, and not 'avin' much to 
 do, they were hiking back to some other part o' 
 the line. I saw them crawl in across the parapet, 
 and I 'eard one o' them say: 'I've left that 
 bloomin' blanket in the dugout.' 
 
 "'Forgot it?' I asks 'im. 
 
 " 'Forgot it,' says 'e, 'and it was a damned good 
 'un.' 
 
 " 'Nuff said. I knew where the dugout was, 
 out on No Man's Land, wiv a camouflage cov- 
 erin' over it and loopholes all round it. So when 
 the snipers cleared from the trench I gets over 
 the bags and crawls out through the snow, with 
 the bullets goin' plonk round my head and the big 
 
The Blanket 249 
 
 stuff flingin' the dirt about my ears. I came to 
 the dugout and crawls in and collars the blanket 
 and here it is now, and I'm not goin' to 'ave arf 
 a kip." 
 
 "But ye didn't go out into No Man's Land 
 when that ruction was on a couple iv hours ago?" 
 Sullivan enquired. 
 
 "That's the time I went out," said Stiffy. 
 
 "But, Holy Mother ! it was flyin' in the face iv 
 Death and the divil," said the Irishman. "Ye're 
 a silly gulpin, Stiffy ! To think that ye would go 
 out like that " 
 
 "But I got the blanket, anyway," said the 
 youngster, and as he spoke he wrapped his blan- 
 ket round his body with the intention of having 
 a good sound sleep. 
 
 But slumber at that moment was denied to the 
 enterprising Stiffy, for the door of the dugout 
 was shoved inwards and a corporal appeared. 
 
 "What are you guys doin' ?" he enquired. 
 
 "I'm on sentry in ten minutes time," said Sulli- 
 van. 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I'm on sentry, too," said Stiffy. 
 
 "When are you on?" 
 
 "After a bit," said Stiffy. 
 
 "Two minutes from now or two hours ?" asked 
 the inexorable corporal. 
 
250 The Dough Boys 
 
 "Two hours," Stiffy confessed, and wished to 
 God that he was anywhere except in that dugout 
 at that particular moment. 
 
 "I guess you're the guy I've been lookin' for," 
 said the corporal. "There's a little fatigue down 
 the way. A trench wall has fallen in and we must 
 repair it. Come along!" 
 
 "After I got that damned blanket, too," said 
 the morose Stiffy as he followed the corporal out 
 into the darkness of the trench. Sullivan fol- 
 lowed the two men and went to the post held by 
 Burke. The youngster was standing on the fire- 
 step, rapping his knuckles one against the other 
 as he watched 'the sullen and mysterious field in 
 front. 
 
 "Yer go as a sentry's at an end, Bud," said 
 Sullivan as he went up on the banquette beside 
 the sentry. Burke ceased rapping his knuckles 
 and pulled himself together for the relief, as the 
 corporal on duty appeared in the bay. 
 
 "Keeping my eyes open was a tough proposi- 
 tion," he said. "Almost peeled the skin off my 
 knuckles trying to keep the sleep away." 
 
 "Well, ye've two hours now, Bud," said Sulli- 
 van. 
 
 "And I want two hours," said the youngster. 
 "Gee! I feel as if I'd had no sleep since I've come 
 to France. Last night I was on the search for 
 
The Blanket 251 
 
 that ration party that went astray and did not 
 get back till dawn, then all to-day building the 
 damned parapet and no chance of lyin' down. 
 But it's all right now, Sullivan, I'm off!" 
 
 With these words Burke disappeared into the 
 dugout, curled himself up in a corner with his 
 back to the wall, tightened the blanket which he 
 found on the floor round his body and closed his 
 eyes. The dugout was deserted. A listening post 
 had gone out on No Man's Land, and the trench 
 for the time being was held by a very small garri- 
 son. The candle placed in the neck of the bottle 
 burned dimly near the door and Burke did not 
 blow it out. He was far too tired to trouble 
 about such details. All he wanted was to have 
 a good sound sleep in the short time that was 
 allowed him. Two hours pass quickly for a weary 
 man in repose. And Burke was tired. Never in 
 all his life had he felt so worn out. 
 
 He was certainly asleep five minutes later when 
 the corporal who had charge of the ration fatigue 
 came into the dugout. Food had come up and 
 the corporal was looking for the sergeant of 
 Burke's platoon. 
 
 "Here you!" he called. "Where is Sergeant 
 Bigelow?" 
 
 Burke did not move and the corporal came up 
 and pulled him by the arm. 
 
252 The Dough Boys 
 
 "What do you want?" Burke grumbled, stir- 
 ring uneasily. 
 
 "Where's Bigelow?" enquired the corporal. 
 
 "Listening post," Burke mumbled, and fell 
 asleep again. 
 
 The corporal went out, but returned almost im- 
 mediately. 
 
 "Burke!" he shouted, but the sleeping boy paid 
 no heed. 
 
 "Well, some of you rounders are the limit," 
 said the corporal, and again shook the youth. 
 
 "Oh! what the deuce is wrong with you now?" 
 
 "I'm leaving the platoon rations here in this 
 dugout," said the corporal. "Keep your eye on 
 them till Sergeant Bigelow comes in again." 
 
 "All right, Corporal," Burke replied, opening 
 his eyes. 
 
 He closed them again, but felt very restless. 
 Even in the trenches sleep comes more easily 
 than it returns, and this happened to the young- 
 ster Burke. He could not go to sleep again, so 
 he began thinking. Old recollections of home and 
 the life he knew before the war thronged through 
 his mind. These crossed immediate recollections 
 of the life he knew in the trenches, and all floated 
 confusedly, losing their shape, growing into gi- 
 gantic proportions and then disappearing sud- 
 denly. Many thoughts occurred to him, but there 
 
The Blanket 253 
 
 was one which constantly returned and finally ex- 
 pelled all the rest. It was the thought of that 
 candle burning near the door, the only candle in 
 his section, and the one by the light of which his 
 mates wrote their letters home. In his section 
 were married men, old soldiers, who wrote daily 
 to their wives. A letter home meant so much to 
 the waiting women. Presently the covering 
 party would come in and presently the candle 
 would have burned to the glass. The post would 
 go out by dawn and the letters would not be 
 written. 
 
 "I must get up and blow that bloomin' candle 
 out," said Burke, several times, but on each oc- 
 casion he snuggled deeper into his covercoat, for 
 his body claimed repose though his conscience 
 urged him to get up and extinguish the candle. 
 
 He looked at his wrist watch. Fifteen min- 
 utes had passed and the time when he would be 
 roused was approaching with almost incredible 
 speed. 
 
 "Well, if I don't blow that damned candle out 
 I'll not sleep a wink the whole night !" he ejacu- 
 lated, getting to his feet. Approaching the door 
 he bent down and puffed at the flame and extin- 
 guished it. Then he lay down again. 
 
 But not to sleep. Burke, a brave soldier, dar- 
 ing in an offensive and dogged in defence, was 
 
254 The Dough Boys 
 
 afraid of — rats. The sector in which his bat- 
 talion was now placed was infested with the ver- 
 min. They swarmed in trench and dugout and 
 were always out on the prowl for food. Now 
 that the dugout was in darkness they came out 
 from their holes and ran all over the place. Their 
 velvety paws made no sound telling of their ap- 
 proach and Burke, half asleep, only became con- 
 scious of the presence of one of the most daring 
 when it ran across his face. 
 
 He sat up with a shriek, went towards the door 
 and lit the candle again. When the rats saw the 
 light they slunk into the corners and became one 
 with the walls. 
 
 "Well, I won't get my face chawed off, any- 
 way," said Burke, as he lay down again. "I'll 
 have my sleep now, even if a letter never goes 
 home to America." 
 
 Again he curled himself up on the floor. Five 
 minutes passed by, ten, fifteen. He looked at his 
 watch again and saw that the time was now five 
 minutes to one. And he had had no real sleep 
 yet. Besides, the candle was going out and the 
 rats would visit him presently. 
 
 It was a low filing sound that attracted his 
 attention and the sound came from the corner 
 in which the rations were piled. 
 
 "The damned rats at the grub!" he muttered, 
 
The Blanket 255 
 
 and with one wild dash he rushed across the room 
 just in time to see them scurrying off from the 
 big loaf on which their teeth had been busy. 
 
 One event followed another in rapid succes- 
 sion afterwards. He placed the rations out in 
 the trench on the firestep and called to Sullivan 
 to keep an eye on them ; then he returned to the 
 dugout to find the candle burned almost to the 
 bottle. The rats would be back presently and it 
 would be impossible for the weary Burke to get 
 to sleep. Standing at the door of the dugout he 
 spoke across the trench, telling his mate of his 
 plight. "There's a bag here with something in 
 it," said Sullivan when the narration came to an 
 end. "Maybe there are some candles." 
 
 Burke looked in the bag and found candles — 
 half a dozen of them. He looked at his watch 
 and found that he had only one half -hour for a 
 sleep before his turn for duty came round again. 
 
 "It's no good trying to sleep now," he said to 
 Sullivan. "I'll just sit down in the dugout, light 
 a cigarette and wait till my turn comes." 
 
 He went in, lit a candle and a cigarette, sat 
 down again with his blanket round his knees and 
 smoked. Presently the cigarette fell to the floor 
 and Burke's head sank against the wall and he 
 fell asleep. 
 
 He was awakened by Stiff. 
 
256 The Dough Boys 
 
 "Time to turn out?" Burke asked, blinking in 
 the corporal's face. "It's just like my luck. And 
 I was in the right way for a kip." 
 
 "So it seemed four hours ago," said Sullivan, 
 who was also in the dugout. "Ye looked so com- 
 fortable as ye snored that I hadn't the heart to 
 wake ye up. But now ye've got to get up, for 
 it's " 
 
 "What?" asked Burke. 
 
 "Stand to ! Six o'clock in the morning," said 
 the corporal. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE LOST COLONEL 
 
 THE night was ebony black, and quiet as the 
 grave. Spring clouds, heavy with rain, 
 hung very low and seemed as if trying to 
 thrust their weight down on the watchers in No 
 Man's Land. The covering party lay in a line 
 alone the wet earth, a space of half a dozen yards 
 between each man. Sullivan was there, lying 
 face to the ground, the smell of the earth heavy 
 in his nostrils and dreams and thoughts engen- 
 dered on such a night running riot in his head. 
 Near him was Stiffy, the Cockney, his helmet 
 pulled down over his eyes and his hand chilled 
 with the cold, resting on his rifle. But he was 
 too far away for Sullivan to have an opportunity 
 to speak to him. Burke was not out on the job. 
 He was back in the trench doing some job or 
 another and cursing heartily at not being allowed 
 to join his mates on their vigil. 
 
 Sullivan was very sleepy, for he had had no 
 sleep the night before. All that day he had been 
 hard at work, for the trenches, following a Boche 
 
 257 
 
258 The Dough Boys 
 
 bombardment, were in a very bad state, parapets 
 had been blown down by the German shells, ma- 
 chine gun emplacements had been levelled to 
 earth. Sandbags flung broadcast by the fury of 
 war had filled up parts of the communication 
 trench. All this had to be remedied, and all day 
 long Sullivan worked and sweated at the toil. 
 Now, when night had fallen, the barbed wire en- 
 tanglements had to be repaired and the engineers 
 were set to work on the job. The infantry of the 
 trench garrison supplied the covering party and 
 Sullivan was one of the men who went out. 
 • As he lay there in the grass, he could hear the 
 engineers at work, hammering in the posts, buck- 
 ling the supports and pulling the wires taut. They 
 were as quiet about it as possible, but to the 
 tensely strained ears of Sullivan and his mates 
 the noise of labour came like the rumble of artil- 
 lery. The enemy would surely hear it, too. 
 
 He may have done so, but he had his own work- 
 ing parties out and thought it wiser not to take 
 any notice. Now and again Sullivan fancied that 
 he could see dark forms standing quite motion- 
 less and very near him, but probably his eyes 
 played him false and the objects might be tree- 
 trunks trimmed down by shell-fire. He was very 
 sleepy and his chief wish was that his job would 
 
The Lost Colonel 259 
 
 soon come to an end and allow him to get back to 
 his trench. 
 
 "I wish that the sleep wasn't so much in me 
 eyes," he muttered. "I'm afraid that I may drop 
 off for a snooze any minut. But that wouldn't 
 do. I'll just nip me leg to keep meself up to the 
 mark. Right in the thick iv me leg." 
 
 He caught the soft of his thigh between finger 
 and thumb and pinched vigorously. He did it 
 several times and almost screeched with the pain 
 of it. 
 
 "It's the only way to do it," he said, as if apolo- 
 gising for the pain which he had inflicted upon 
 himself. "If I don't pinch like blazes, I'll maybe 
 drop off. That would never do and the life iv so 
 many iv me mates dependin' on me, and others 
 like me." 
 
 He pinched his leg again and rapped his 
 knuckles against the butt of his rifle. He kept 
 on rapping until one of his knuckles was bleed- 
 ing. 
 
 "It's damned funny caper, this," he muttered. 
 "It has got to be done, I suppose. But they don't 
 know away over there what we've got to do out 
 here. This is war in defence iv civilisation," he 
 said with a low laugh. "Here am I doin' my bit 
 iv the war be rappin' me knuckles agin me rifle. 
 Well, I suppose it's one way iv doin' the Big 
 
260 The Dough Boys 
 
 Job, iv deliverin' the goods. Now, what would 
 they say away in me own townland, the town- 
 land iv Kingarrow, if I told them that in France 
 I spent all me days workin' with a spade and all 
 me nights rappin' me fingers on me rifle butt? 
 Oh, Glory be! but it's the funny war!" 
 
 Sullivan became suddenly alert as a dark fig- 
 ure showed right in front of him. It was the 
 figure of a man. Who could it be? Sullivan 
 raised himself on his knee and lunged forward 
 at the figure when it came almost within striking 
 distance. "Halt! Who are you !" he called. 
 
 "Your colonel !" was the reply given in a whis- 
 per. "Keep a good watch, my boy, for that is the 
 proper thing!" 
 
 Sullivan sank back again to his original posi- 
 tion. Toughey, true to his nature, had come out 
 to see the men, to give them heart and courage 
 in their work. "He's a grand man," Sullivan 
 whispered to himself. "He has the soul iv a 
 fighter!" 
 
 A second figure appeared out of the darkness. 
 Again Sullivan's bayonet shot out and the man 
 came to a halt. 
 
 "I'm Father Connor," he said. "And you're 
 Sullivan?" 
 
 "Yes, Father," said the Irishman. "This isn't 
 the place for you." 
 
The Lost Colonel 261 
 
 "My place is everywhere," said the priest. 
 "Get a hot drink if possible when you get back. 
 You'll need it after lying out here for a few 
 hours." 
 
 "Ah, Father, the drink that I would like after 
 I go in is not allowed in the American Army," 
 said Sullivan. 
 
 The priest chuckled deep down in his throat 
 and went on his way. 
 
 "I always knew be the get iv him that old Fa- 
 ther Connor was a good man," said Sullivan. 
 "To think iv him comin' out here when he could 
 have stopped in where he was in some snug billet 
 well to the back." 
 
 The good father had scarcely disappeared in 
 the darkness when Sullivan heard Stiffy call in 
 a loud whisper: "The right flank has encoun- 
 tered enemy patrol! Reinforcements! Pass it 
 along." 
 
 Sullivan passed the message along, stood up- 
 right and with bayonet in hand rushed on a dark 
 object which he had suddenly noticed right in 
 front of him. It lay on the ground, but was ap- 
 parently moving towards the covering party. 
 
 He reached it and saw that it was something 
 alive. A German probably. 
 
 "Who're ye at all?" Sullivan hissed as he 
 pointed his bayonet at the figure. 
 
262 The Dough Boys 
 
 The click of a drawn rifle bolt was the only re- 
 sponse and Sullivan gave the figure a kick with 
 his heavy boot. At this it rose to its feet with a 
 whimper and shot its hands over its head. It 
 was a German soldier. 
 
 "Kamerad," he appealed in good English. 
 "Wife and three children." 
 
 "If ye yell like that again a harem and a school 
 of children won't save ye," said Sullivan. "What 
 the divil are ye comin' atween me and a fight for, 
 anyway?" he thundered. 
 
 "Kamerad !" whined the German. 
 
 Sullivan was very annoyed. A fight on and he 
 had to take charge of a prisoner ! It was a job 
 not to his liking. From the right came the sound 
 of rifles and yelling. The men from the left 
 rushed by and one took shape opposite Sullivan 
 and made to pass. Sullivan reached out a long 
 arm and gripped the man by the shoulder. 
 
 "Let me go !" gasped the man. "I want to get 
 along to the fighting!" 
 
 "Take charge iv this man, iv this prisoner," 
 said Sullivan in a voice of command. "Take 
 him back to the trench with ye now. Get ye be- 
 hind him with the bay'net and cart him in !" 
 
 The soldier, a young fellow of nineteen, had 
 heard of Sullivan and knew him to be one of the 
 most reckless and daring men in the battalion. 
 
The Lost Colonel 263 
 
 He obeyed Sullivan's command and took charge 
 of the prisoner. Then Sullivan doubled off to the 
 right where the fight was in full swing. 
 
 While this was taking place out on No Man's, 
 Land, Burke was standing on the fire-step of the 
 home trench listening to the sounds of the fight- 
 ing. The boy's heart was troubled because the' 
 Colonel, old Toughey, was out there fighting with] 
 the others. And he might get killed, killed while 
 Burke was standing in the trench just looking on 
 and taking no part in the conflict. And at the 
 present moment the boy wanted to help the Colo- 
 nel of the battalion, the colonel who had made 
 him look such a fool at Mud-wallow, the Colonel 
 whom he had vowed to kill whenever the first op- 
 portunity presented itself. Burke had once said 
 that the first bullet he fired in the trenches would 
 be for Toughey. But now he was of a different 
 frame of mind and was prepared to offer his own 
 life to save that of the Colonel. 
 
 This changed outlook was of very recent oc- 
 currence. It was brought about a few moments 
 ago when the American mail came in. Burke re- 
 ceived several letters and one spoke of the Colo- 
 nel, who was at present out in front fighting with 
 his men, daring as the most humble soldier in his 
 battalion dared, sharing the risks and hardships 
 incumbent on the simple soldier. 
 
264 The Dough Boys 
 
 The letter was from Burke's father, a wealthy 
 man and partner in one of the biggest stores in 
 the city of New York. And his father knew the 
 Colonel. Both were boys at school together, 
 bosom chums, who shared one another's sorrows 
 and joys. The two youngsters were ready to dare 
 anything and were constantly getting into trou- 
 ble from which nothing but pure luck saved them 
 many a time. Once they fell foul of some Ger- 
 man youngsters and a fight ensued in which the 
 two chums came off as victors. "I've known the 
 Germans for many a year, and I am some judge 
 of their character," said Burke's father in the 
 letter. "In a straight fight they're nowhere, but 
 if a crowd of them happens to find you alone in 
 a quiet spot you've got to look out. These fel- 
 lows with whom your Colonel and myself had 
 the little row, found us alone one night a short 
 while afterwards and they set upon us. They 
 were armed with sticks and we had nothing to aid 
 us save our fists. Your Colonel was a splendid 
 fighter and he kept up gamely until a blow with 
 a stick on his head knocked him unconscious to 
 the street. My job to keep him from getting 
 pounded to jelly was cut out for me at that mo- 
 ment. By the time a policeman came round to 
 our assistance your Colonel was recovering a lit- 
 
The Lost Colonel 265 
 
 tie from his blow and I was lying on the street 
 losing consciousness. 
 
 "Some time afterwards we both left college 
 and I went to business while your Colonel joined 
 the Army. This I knew would happen, for he 
 had a hankering after military life from the time 
 I first knew him. Afterwards I never met him 
 again and only came to know of his whereabouts 
 a few weeks ago when I wrote to the Colonel of 
 your battalion, asking him to look after you and 
 see that you were not getting into mischief. As 
 you know, you joined up under false pretences, 
 when you were not of age for the Army. I did 
 not know the name of your Colonel, but when he 
 replied I discovered that he was no other than 
 the old schoolmate of mine, my great chum when 
 I was a boy. He told me that he would keep his 
 eye on you and give you a job which would keep 
 you out of harm for a while at least. . . ." 
 
 "And the brown soap and water at Mud-wal- 
 low," said Burke, as he stood on the firestep, look- 
 ing out into the darkness ahead, where the rifle 
 flashes dabbed at the night. "Because he felt it 
 his duty to my father to watch over me ! And I 
 repaid the man by hating him. But how was I to 
 know ?" 
 
 Burke kept shuffling his feet on the firestep 
 impatiently, waiting for the relief who was due 
 
266 The Dough Boys 
 
 at any moment now. When his duty was at an 
 end he was going to cross over the parapet and 
 get into the fight by the side of the Colonel. He 
 desired nothing more at that moment than to die 
 fighting by the Colonel's side, just to show him 
 that he was ready to give his life for the sake of 
 his father's friend. 
 
 Five minutes passed, then ten, and no relief 
 was yet to be seen. Away in front the firing had 
 lost its intensity. Only a few shots could be 
 heard now and apparently the affair of outposts 
 was at an end. 
 
 Men began to come in, some tumbling over the 
 sandbags hurriedly, as if glad to be out of the 
 scrap, others sauntering in slowly and standing 
 on the parapet brink for a moment as if to show 
 that the affair just past was an ordinary event 
 in their lives. Stiffy belonged to the latter type. 
 He came to the parapet, stopped there for a mo- 
 ment and looked in at Burke. 
 
 "Has Toughey came back with you?" asked 
 Burke. 
 
 "I suppose 'e 'as," said the Cockney. "I saw 
 'im out there and 'e wasn't makin' arf a fight o't. 
 'E 'as some guts, the same ole Toughey. And 
 annuver man wiv guts is Father Connor. Yer 
 should 'ave seen 'im. 'E was liftin' a wounded 
 bloke as fell to the ground when a 'Iney came up 
 
The Lost Colonel 267 
 
 and tried to run the poor feller through. Father 
 Connor just sees 'im in time and 'e launches out 
 with his fist and knocks that German doggo. And 
 when 'e knocks 'im down 'e says to 'imself like as 
 if not wantin' any other one to 'ear it: 'God for- 
 give me for havin' such a temper.' " 
 
 "And where's Sullivan ?" Burke enquired. 
 
 "Lost sight o' 'im in the scrap," said Stiffyv 
 "But 'e's all right. Catch that Irishman let any 
 one get the better o' 'im." 
 
 At that moment Top-sergeant Casey appeared 
 and stood beside Stiffy. He looked down at 
 Burke. 
 
 "Has the mail come?" he asked. 
 
 "It's right here," was Burke's reply. 
 
 Casey gave a whoop of delight, jumped into the 
 trench and rushed along towards his own dugout, 
 where he knew the letters would be placed wait- 
 ing his return. Stiffy did not follow him. He 
 just stood in the same position and only his eyes 
 followed the disappearing sergeant. 
 
 "He's a lucky dawg," he said. "A mail comin' 
 or goin' makes no difference to me." 
 
 "But you told me the other day that you had a 
 girl in New York," said Burke. "Does she never 
 write to you?" 
 
 "She doesn't know where I am," said the youtK 
 sadly. "Even if she did, she'd maybe not want 
 
268 The Dough Boys 
 
 ter write. Women are funny creatures and not 
 to be trusted. I would like to 'ave a letter now 
 and again. But as I can't get one, I'll 'ave a 
 cigarette." 
 
 With these words Stiffy dropped into the 
 trench, sat himself down on the firestep beside 
 Burke's feet and lit his cigarette. And as the 
 smoke was wafting heavenwards, a voice was 
 heard coming in from No Man's Land. 
 
 "Don't be shovin' out that bit iv steel in me 
 face, ye limb iv perdition, ye !" said the voice, and 
 the voice was that of the Irishman Sullivan. 
 Burke had thrust his bayonet out when he saw 
 the figure approaching. 
 
 "Ah! Gawd, it's the man from Kingarrow," 
 exclaimed Stiffy, springing to his feet and hold- 
 ing out his hand to the Irishman. "Where 'ave 
 ye been all this time?" 
 
 "Me? I was a prisoner," said Sullivan. 
 
 "No leg pullin'," said the Cockney. "Where 
 'ave yer been ?" 
 
 "Prisoner," said Sullivan, perching himself on 
 the parapet and feeling for his pipe in his pocket. 
 "A Hiney took me prisoner and here's the rifle 
 and bay'net that he used in the doin' iv the job." 
 
 He handed the strange rifle and bayonet to 
 Stiffy as he spoke. The youngster examined it. 
 
The Lost Colonel 269 
 
 "It's not one o' ours, sure enough," he said. 
 "But where is the man 'as owned it?" 
 
 "Well, as I'm a good Christian I can't but hope 
 that he's where all good Christians go to at the 
 end," said Sullivan. "But one thing's certain 
 and that is this: The man who owned this rifle 
 and bay 'net when the row started will never give 
 us any trouble again. He's out iv the ructions 
 for good." 
 
 "But how did you come to be taken prisoner?" 
 asked Burke. 
 
 "The easiest job in the world it is to be taken a 
 prisoner, but to get away from the fix is another 
 matter," said Sullivan. "I mind long ago in the 
 years far back when I was a brewer iv duty-free 
 whisky away in me own townland iv Kingar- 
 row " 
 
 "Damn Kingarrow," said Burke. "How were 
 you taken prisoner. That's what we want to 
 know." 
 
 "Well, this was how it was," said Sullivan. "I 
 was lyin' on the cold ground, cold to the bone and 
 half frozen. All at once I saw something move 
 in front, so I advanced and made it prisoner. It 
 was a German. Then I got one iv our men who 
 was goin' on to the fightin' and I stopped him and 
 told him to take the prisoner in here. He did as 
 he was told and I went along to see the fighting 
 
270 The Dough Boys 
 
 'Twasn't much to talk about when I arrived, for 
 none iv the Hineys wanted to give battle. They 
 were afraid iv the steel and there's not much fun 
 in being confronted by men that do nothin' but 
 yelp 'Kamerad! Kamerad!' and shove up their 
 hands over their heads. 
 
 "But there was one fellow that was more at 
 home with the steel and I saw him lunge at a 
 man that was lyin' down wounded and it was 
 just the sudden thrust iv me own weapon that 
 saved that poor boy's life. The Hiney drew back 
 and me and him faced one another, bay'net to 
 bay 'net. But he was not havin' any, for when I 
 let one roar out iv me he turned round and legged 
 it like a hare. After him I goes, and I was just 
 within touchin' iv him when I trips and goes flat 
 on me face on the ground. That was the undoin' 
 iv me, for when I gets to me feet I found the 
 Hiney with his bay'net restin' on me chin. The 
 feel iv steel is not the nicest in all the world, me 
 boys. And added to that, there were more iv the 
 buckos gatherin' in round me. 
 
 " 'Ye are mine brissner,' said the man with the 
 bay'net. 'Put yer two hands up.' 
 
 "Well, as I had only one life to lose I didn't 
 want to lose it, so I ups with me hands and stood 
 at attention. The Hiney, he went round me until 
 he got to the back and then with the bay'net very 
 
The Lost Colonel 271 
 
 close he said in a whisper : 'Ye haf not to speak 
 and ye haf to march quick back with me.' 
 
 "Mother iv God ! it went agin the grain iv me, 
 a Sullivan that has me own two brothers — in the 
 Irish Guards they were — killed be the Hineys, to 
 obey the orders iv that man. But what could I 
 do and him at the back iv me with his bay'net al- 
 most touchin' the bone iv me neck? I couldn't 
 look behind me at all and I could only keep me 
 own two eyes in front iv me and walk as steady 
 as Top-sergeant Casey on parade. And there 
 was such a mob iv Germans goin' back, too, to 
 their trench and only one American with them, 
 and that American was me, Sullivan, born in 
 Kingarrow, Ireland, and barkeeper iv Kelly's 
 Saloon in the City iv New York. And what was 
 for me now, but to be a prisoner in Germany 
 where they have dead men served up as sausen- 
 gers. 'It's better for me to be a dead man than 
 that,' says I to meself as I came up to the German 
 wire and him that had me in charge told me to 
 crawl through a hole that he pointed out to me. 
 The other men had spread out and they were all 
 over the place, some to the right and some to the 
 left, and others through and makin' for their own 
 parapet. They were all in a hurry gettin' in, I'm 
 Jejlin' you." 
 
 " 'Ye haf to get through that first,' said the 
 
272 The Dough Boys 
 
 German to me, and he pointin' to the place where 
 the wire was broken down a bit. 
 
 "Through it I went and I heard him comin' 
 after me like a bullock breakin' into a grazin' 
 field. All at once he let rip something which I 
 took to be a curse and I looks round to see the 
 Hiney lyin' on the wires, for he had tripped and 
 came a cropper. 'Twasn't a chance to be lost, 
 I'm tellin' ye, and in the flicker iv an eyelid I was 
 sittin' on his neck. 
 
 " 'Not a word now, me man,' says I, 'or I'll 
 bash yer head in,' and as I spoke I made a grab 
 for his bay'net. But it was hard to get it free, 
 for he had fallen with the full weight iv his 
 body on the top iv it. As he was a heavy man 
 and no end iv an obstruction I had to get up to 
 remove him. Just in time, for I only managed 
 to get the weapon and slip out iv the reach iv the 
 bay'net lunge iv two Hineys that had come run- 
 nin' back to help their mate. And the man rose 
 from the wires and flung a stake or somethin' at 
 me that caught me on the shoulder and almost 
 knocked me off me feet. I settled with him, and 
 then, as a whole mob was comin' into the ructions, 
 I scooted like a hare. No man in all the world 
 could fly across No Man's Land as I flew across 
 it when I got away. It didn't take me long to 
 get here, and now all I want is to find Father 
 
The Lost Colonel 273 
 
 Connor and get him to say a mass for the soul iv 
 one man that isn't able to get a mass said for 
 himself in this world again." 
 
 "Did you see the Colonel?" asked Burke. 
 
 "Only once," said Sullivan, "and then he was 
 fightin' like a two-year-old. He's a man with 
 blood in him. Has he come back?" 
 
 "I haven't seen him," said Burke. "But they 
 say that he's all right, that he has come in." 
 
 The corporal on duty came into the trench, 
 and Burke was relieved. As he stepped down 
 from the firestep, Top-sergeant Casey came 
 round the traverse. 
 
 "None of you have seen the Colonel?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " 'Aven't seen 'im 'ere," said Stiffy. " 'E'll be 
 along at the other end, maybe." 
 
 "Word has been sent along there and nobody 
 in that quarter knows where he is," said Top- 
 sergeant. "Some say that he has come in and 
 others say that he has been taken prisoner. They 
 say that he followed the retreating Germans and 
 didn't come back. In the excitement the boys lost 
 sight of him." 
 
 "We'll go out and raid the damned trench if 
 they've taken 'im," said Stiffy. "Gawd! We 
 cannot lose ole Toughey." 
 
 "I'm makin' enquiries," said the Top-sergeant, 
 
274 The Dough Boys 
 
 "and when we find out what's happened we'll 
 know what to do." 
 
 One soldier alone knew what to do at that mo- 
 ment, and that was the youngster Burke. By 
 some queer instinct, he guessed that the Colonel 
 was not in the trench, that he was lying out 
 wounded or dead on the wastes of No Man's 
 Land. And, believing in this, the boy came to a 
 resolution to go out and search for the beloved 
 Colonel. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 BACK FROM THB GRAVE 
 
 THE youngster Burke was a born soldier. 
 Dogged and daring, he was a boy to be 
 depended on in a raid or a charge ; kindly 
 and sympathetic, he was a youngster whom Stiffy 
 and Sullivan confided in when in trouble. Al- 
 though wearing a mask of cynical aloofness he 
 was, to those who got to know him well, a youth 
 of sterling qualities and deep sympathies. Sulli- 
 van often saw him weep over the sorrows of the 
 poor children who lived in the villages on the 
 fringe of the field of battle, the little dwellers in 
 the many Goblin Towns brought to desolation in 
 the great battle started by the Germans in their 
 hankering for world domination. The two men 
 with whom he mated and fought, his two bunkies, 
 Stiffy and Sullivan, loved to call him pal, men- 
 tioned his name with respect when in his com- 
 pany and with feeling in his absence. 
 
 Now that the Colonel was missing, lost to his 
 men in the raid, Burke felt inconsolable. Old 
 Toughey, his father's pal at school, the man who 
 
 275 
 
276 The Dough .Boys 
 
 had fought side by side with his father against 
 the German schoolboys, was missing. Probably 
 he was lying out even now in No Man's Land, 
 wounded and unconscious. He must go out and 
 look for the man, find him, if possible, and bring 
 him in. He determined to go out on his mad 
 expedition without saying a word about it. If 
 he told Sullivan, the Irishman might not allow 
 him to go. And if he allowed him to go he would 
 be sure to accompany him. Stiffy would act in 
 the same manner, Stiffy the Cockney, who was 
 born without any sense of fear in his being. But 
 Burke wanted none of them to accompany him. 
 He would go out on his own, and if anything 
 could be done he would do it on his own initia- 
 tive. 
 
 A little after the hour of midnight he crawled 
 over the top, rifle in hand and bayonet fixed. 
 Nobody knew of his departure. No Man's Land 
 was cold and indistinct and a light ground fog 
 covered the shell-pitted levels. Burke set out 
 rapidly towards the enemy trench some three 
 hundred yards away. He took the path towards 
 the spot where the fighting had been waged an 
 hour ago. After going some fifty yards, he 
 stopped as a star-shell rose into the sky over the 
 enemy trenches, looked all round and saw noth- 
 ing save the eternal dead bodies which always 
 
Back from the Grave 277 
 
 lay between the trenches. Many fresh bodies 
 lay there now, men who were alive when dark- 
 ness fell. 
 
 Putting both hands round his mouth in the 
 form of a trumpet, Burke called in a loud whis- 
 per: "Colonel Everett! Sir!" 
 
 He listened, but heard no answer to his call. 
 The field about him was deserted and gloomy and 
 the gloom imparted a mournful life to the things 
 in the deserted waste. 
 
 He began to walk again and then quickened 
 his pace into a run, but from time to time he 
 shouted in a whisper: "Colonel Everett! Colo- 
 nel Everett !" But there was no answer. Prob- 
 ably the officer was a prisoner in the German 
 hands, or maybe he was lying dead near at hand. 
 
 Burke saw something lying on the ground near 
 the German wires and he went up to it. It was 
 the figure of a man, a man who was probably 
 dead, but it was not an American. It was a Ger- 
 man officer. Burke bent over it and he heard it 
 moan. The poor abandoned creature was 
 wounded and unconscious. Probably he had been 
 hit down on the way in, and his own people, be- 
 lieving he was dead, left him. Burke knew full 
 well what duty demanded on an occasion like this. 
 To the American soldier the wounded man near- 
 est to hand, whether friend or foe, is first to be 
 
278 The Dougn tfoys 
 
 attended to. Burke examined the poor fellow's 
 body, searching for the wound, discovered it, and 
 dressed it. 
 
 "The men that will come out after me to look 
 for the Colonel will find this fellow here and they 
 will take him in," said Burke in a whisper. 
 "Meanwhile I have got another job on hand." 
 With these words he continued the search for 
 Toughey. 
 
 The work was slow, silent and tedious. When 
 a star-shell went up the soldier threw himself 
 flat to the ground and waited till the light died 
 away before he resumed his investigations. 
 Three several times he crawled through the enemy 
 entanglements and once he went to the lip of the 
 hostile trench and looked over. But no success 
 awarded his efforts. He could find no officer. 
 And the night crept on until the greyness fore- 
 telling the dawn found Burke still engaged on his 
 search and very close to the wrong parapet. It 
 was now time for him to get back. 
 
 "It's no good for me to remain here longer," 
 he said, and was just on the point of crawling 
 back through the enemy wires when he heard a 
 groan on his left. He crawled across the pitted 
 ground to something that appeared to him to be 
 a person lying down. On reaching this, however, 
 he only found a sandbag lying flush with the 
 
Back from the Grave 279 
 
 earth. Just as he reached it he got hit by a bul- 
 let which grazed the fleshy part of his arm, hav- 
 ing first smashed the action of his rifle. Again 
 he heard a groan and again he looked about him, 
 to see very close at hand a figure in khaki 
 hunched up against an entanglement prop, his 
 head resting on the wire. It was Toughey, the 
 Colonel, wounded and unconscious. 
 
 There was no time to be lost, for the German 
 trenches were already rising out of the greyness 
 like a buoy from the sea. Burke bent down and 
 tried to lift the Colonel. But he found that this 
 was impossible. The officer was a very heavy 
 man, and to get him even to his feet was a task 
 which Burke found beyond his powers. What 
 was to be done? The dawn was breaking and 
 the two men would presently be observed from 
 the hostile trench. He placed his superior's back 
 on the ground and looked about him. At the 
 same moment the Colonel opened his eyes. 
 
 "For God's sake let me alone," he murmured 
 in a very weak voice. "Who are you?" 
 
 As he spoke his eyes rested on Burke, but they 
 seemed to be seeing far beyond the boy into un- 
 fathomable distances. 
 
 "Go a little to the left," said the officer in a 
 whisper, no doubt using words of advice which 
 he had given his men on the night before. "Keep 
 
280 The Dough Boys 
 
 quiet, very quiet, and we'll get right there." 
 
 "If I get under you, sir," said Burke, "and 
 crawl on my hands and knees we'll probably get 
 into our own lines." 
 
 "But be cautious," said the officer in reply. 
 "Keep wide of that clump of bushes on the right. 
 They may be concealed in . . ." 
 
 "But there's no clump on the right," said the 
 youngster, his heart sinking as he noticed that 
 the field to right and left was becoming clearer. 
 
 "And don't let that youngster come with us," 
 continued the officer. "The rounder isn't more 
 than seventeen. He should be at school yet. He's 
 too young to come out on a listening post." 
 
 The tears welled from Burke's eyes. He 
 guessed that the Colonel was repeating a com- 
 mand which he had at some time or another 
 given to one of the sergeants. And the rounder 
 was probably himself, Burke. What a kind heart 
 the officer had, and even as Burke thought thus 
 he recollected the incident of the brown soap and 
 water in the kitchen at Mud-wallow. "And he 
 is my father's friend," he said. The Colonel, 
 still with his eyes opened, turned to the young- 
 ster. 
 
 "You're here!" he exclaimed. "Where have 
 you come from? What's up?" 
 
Back from the Grave 281 
 
 "Nothing, sir," said Burke. "I just want to 
 get you back to the lines." 
 
 "But where are we?" asked the officer, and a 
 puzzled look showed in his eyes. "Are we two 
 prisoners, Burke?" 
 
 "Not us," said the youngster. "I've just 
 crawled out here looking for you, and I've dis- 
 covered you lying by the wires beside the enemy 
 trenches. But I cannot carry you in, sir. You're 
 so heavy. And the day is getting clear and even 
 now they might be able to spot us from the 
 trenches. But if you let me get under you, sir, 
 I'll maybe manage to get in by crawling on my 
 hands and knees across No Man's Land." 
 
 "I'll tell you what you should do," said the 
 Colonel, whose mind was jmick to work, in even 
 the most desperate situation. "I can't get in to 
 the trenches before daybreak, but you can, if you 
 run like blazes. I'll lie very low here all day and 
 a party can come out at night and take me in. 
 Tell them that Old Toughey is lying out here, 
 and I know my boys. That will be sufficient, 
 Burke. When I get in I can thank you for your 
 gallantry in coming out here. And there will be 
 no more brown soap and water, although, from 
 what I hear, you are still a young crackerjack." 
 
 As he spoke, he tried to rise up, but every 
 movement exhausted him and he was obliged to 
 
282 The Dough Boys 
 
 sit down again. The fatigue was not an ordinary 
 one, it was the weariness of a man badly wounded, 
 and the Colonel had got struck by a bullet in the 
 leg as well as by a rifle-butt on the head, in the 
 melee of the previous night. 
 
 Burke got to his feet and was just on the point 
 of starting off when he noticed two figures ap- 
 proaching him. Something in their movements 
 seemed strangely familiar. They were two men, 
 probably Germans. But he did not know a Ger- 
 man soldier personally, and he did know the walk 
 of these men. They approached the wires, halted 
 for a second and then threw themselves flat to the 
 ground. Burke also lay down and formed his 
 hands into a speaking trumpet. 
 
 "Hi!" he hissed. 
 
 "Hi !" came the answer. 
 
 "Sullivan!" 
 
 "Burke!" 
 
 The two men got to their feet and came through 
 the wires. Burke got up and waved his hand to 
 them, then turned round and pointed at the spot 
 where Toughey was lying. The three men went 
 to the place together. The Colonel's eyes were 
 closed, and the man was again unconscious. Sul- 
 livan unslung his rifle and placed it on the ground. 
 
 "Do the same, the two iv ye, and lift him on 
 
Back from the Grave 283 
 
 my back," he whispered. "I'll be able to carry 
 him in." 
 
 Burke and Stiffy raised the officer. Sullivan 
 got under the wounded man and stood upright 
 with him on his shoulders. 
 
 "Don't forget me rifle, ye buckos !" he said, and 
 hurried off, stepping over the stray strands of 
 trip wire with cautious steps. Once beyond the 
 entanglements he rushed forward for a score of 
 yards and then found that a machine gun had 
 opened fire. The bullets whizzed round the party, 
 striking spurts of earth from the muddy ground. 
 
 "Not at us they're firing," said Sullivan, walk- 
 ing with desperate haste, but doing his best not 
 to jolt the Colonel. "They're just havin' a bit iv 
 fun firin' into the wide world hopin' that they'll 
 get a bullet maybe into some wee child that's 
 walkin' about behind the lines. It's the way iv 
 them. And ye haven't forgot to bring me rifle 
 back with yees, have yees?" 
 
 "I'm carrying it," said Stiffy. "But the Colo- 
 nel isn't too weighty on yer shoulders, is he ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Too weighty for me !" said Sullivan, with re- 
 proach in his voice. "And me the strongest man 
 in Kingarrow when I was at home there ! Talkin' 
 about me back not bein' able to bear a Colonel, 
 I could carry a Commander-in-Chief when I put 
 
284 The Dough Boys 
 
 me heart into the work. And it was lucky we 
 were to find him at all, at all." 
 
 "How did you know that he was out here?" 
 asked Burke, turning to Stiffy as both walked in 
 together at the heels of Sullivan. 
 
 "One o' our blokes, Rickers they call 'im, ran 
 after the Hineys and 'e got near their trenches 
 when 'e was 'it," said Stiffy. 'E dropped down 
 and the last person 'e remembers seein' was 
 Toughey fightin' wiv the enemy almost on the 
 lip of the German trench. Rickers saw the Colo- 
 nel gettin' knocked doggo with a rifle, and then 
 Rickers, for 'e was losin' lots of blood wiv his 
 own wounds, fainted off. When 'e came to, 'e 
 looked round for Toughey, but couldn't find 'im, 
 so 'e crawled in and told us, and out the 'ole 
 bloomin' lot came to look for the Colonel." 
 
 Sullivan, though a strong man, felt almost 
 obliged to halt once or twice and put his burden 
 down. But he knew that every moment was 
 precious and even now it was almost possible for 
 the three men to be seen from the enemy trench. 
 He walked with a slower pace and his feet felt as 
 if they were giving way under him. Every yard 
 became a mile and every moment an eternity of 
 agony. But if vigour was almost dead, the man's 
 doggedness was not, and he kept to his task of 
 mercy with a grim endeavour. He reached the 
 
Back from the Grave 285 
 
 home wires, struggled through them and placed 
 the officer on the parapet. Then he looked at his 
 mates. 
 
 "Have yees got me rifle?" he asked. 
 
 "It's here," said Stiffy, taking the weapon from 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "Put it into the dugout then," said Sullivan. 
 "And put a rag over the muzzle to keep the dirt 
 from fallin' down into it." 
 
 With these words he slid into the trench and 
 lay down on the firestep, utterly worn out, while 
 the men in the bay rushed forward to help the 
 unconscious Colonel, returned from the grave. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 BACK TO BILLETS 
 
 ALONG the sloshy road in the darkness, the 
 mud rising over their boots, their pack- 
 straps cutting into the shoulders, their 
 rifles held at all angles and their gloved hands 
 chilled to the bone, came a battalion of American 
 soldiers on their way home from the trenches of 
 war. 
 
 Overhead the heavens were covered with dark 
 clouds and a wind that cut like knives swept 
 against the line of marching figures. Sleet or 
 snow would presently fall over the gloomy and 
 deserted land. Not a human habitation was to 
 be seen ; the whole country lay silent and forbid- 
 ding save where a mile or two in rear the star- 
 shells lit the eastern horizon, telling of the end- 
 less war. 
 
 The men were very tired. For seven days 
 they had lived in the trenches holding a little bit 
 of France against the German soldiery. 
 
 And the days were trying ones, for the sol- 
 diers had to stand hip-deep in the slush of the 
 
 286 
 
Back to billets 287 
 
 trench while they watched the line across the way, 
 sit down in the slush of the fire-step while they 
 ate their food, and lie down on the mud of the 
 trench floor while they slept. Now on the march 
 and free from the world of war for a few days 
 their clothing and equipment told of the hard- 
 ships which they had endured up there. The 
 mud covered the men from their trench helmets 
 to their soggy field-boots. Angry weariness 
 smouldered in their eyes and furrowed their 
 brows; their mouths hung loosely open, their 
 hunched shoulders bent beneath the burdens 
 which they carried. 
 
 Their present plight held their whole atten- 
 tion. There was a warm billet for each man at 
 the end of the march, a good meal, a bath and 
 a bed. But no man thought of these things now. 
 The march was still young and three hours, 
 maybe four, had to be spent tramping, tramping 
 before the village for which they were bound 
 came in sight. It might be reached before dawn 
 and again it might not. But nobody seemed to 
 care. The soldiers tramped steadily, dog-tired 
 and weary; and all thought was driven from 
 their mind. 
 
 Waste as a spread of dead water, the desert 
 lands stretched out on all sides of them with 
 nothing to break its monotonous surface save 
 
288 The uougn noys 
 
 the shrapnelled stumps of the trees which once 
 in the days of peace lined the highway. The im- 
 mensity of the night enfolded the men, reverber- 
 ating through their beings like a wild unearthly 
 spell. All of them were silent. Nothing was to 
 be said and all they had to do was to march on 
 steadily. 
 
 The first halt was called. The men fell out 
 on the side of the road, wiped the sweat from 
 their faces and having a little water to spare they 
 merely moistened their lips with the precious 
 liquid. Full water bottles seldom leave the 
 trenches. Three men sat together on the road- 
 side in silence. Presently one of them stirred 
 and looked in turn at the other two. 
 
 "This hike is going to be a tough proposition 
 for me," he said. 
 
 "It's only fifteen miles," said one of the other 
 men, "and Glory be! but I've never heard ye 
 throublin' about a step like that afore, Bud." 
 
 "There's a blister on my heel," said Bud. "And 
 it's a damned bad one." 
 
 "We'll carry your rifle," said the two men in 
 one voice. 
 
 "I would crawl back on my hands and knees 
 before I'd allow that," said Bud. "Thank you 
 all the same!" 
 
 The march was resumed. Time passed and 
 
mat to rmiets 289 
 
 the men gradually left the line of death and en- 
 tered a country not devastated by war. Here 
 were houses of the thrifty peasantry, homes, 
 snugly ordered and intact, that were never 
 touched by the far-reaching shell or wrecked by 
 the scientifically savage army which set out over 
 three years ago to conquer the world. Lights 
 shone through chinks in shuttered windows, trem- 
 bling into the gloom and now and again when a 
 door was left open the marching men could see 
 children standing in the open doorway watch- 
 ing the strange figures in khaki passing by. 
 
 Danger was past now. No enemy observation 
 post could overlook the road, so permission to 
 smoke was given to the men. Instantly there 
 was a change. Matches were struck, cigarettes 
 and pipes lit and weariness banished. The sol- 
 diers squared their shoulders, their eyes shone 
 and their steps became brisker. Proudly they 
 marched as if arms were their ornament and war 
 their recreation. The life was not such a bad 
 one after all, for there was a billet at the end of 
 the march, a comfortable meal and a good sleep ! 
 And as they thought of a bully kip and a straight 
 meal they thought also of a song. 
 
 Top-sergeant Casey stepped out from the 
 ranks and shouted to the men. "Give it lip, 
 
290 The uougn .boys 
 
 men!" he yelled. "Let 'em know we have ar- 
 rived." 
 
 Even as he spoke the still night was rent by a 
 shout from every throat in the battalion. The 
 song was a popular favourite. 
 
 "Good-bye, Broadway ! Hello, France ! 
 We are ten million strong — 
 Good-bye, sweethearts, wives and mothers — 
 It won't take us long. 
 Don't you worry while we're here, 
 It's you we're fighting for — 
 So good-bye, Broadway ! Hello, France ! 
 We're going to help you win the war." 
 
 The lilting air of the song gave the feet a more 
 vigorous action and started a quicker flow of the 
 blood. Somewhere in front were the rest-bil- 
 lets, a long way off, no doubt, but what did that 
 matter? The men were ready for any march 
 and for any undertaking. 
 
 At the next halt Sullivan turned to Burke as 
 they sat on the wet roadside. "How are ye 
 feelin' it now, Bud, me laddybuck?" he enquired. 
 "Knees goin' a bit?" 
 
 "I'm feeling bully," said the boy in an offhand 
 manner. 
 
 "Though the flesh iv yours is weak it's the 
 grand spirit that ye have, Bud," said Sullivan. 
 "It was low down on yer chest that yer head was 
 
Back to Billets 291 
 
 the last ten minutes. Ye were almost gettin' it 
 with yer knees at every step. Don't be a fool, 
 but gi' me yer rifle to carry and it will aise ye a 
 bit." 
 
 "Not while I have feet under me," said Burke. 
 "Thank you all the same, Sullivan." 
 
 The men got to their feet again and another 
 song was started, the hearty notes floating far 
 and wide through the dark night air. 
 
 "Over there, over there, 
 
 Send the word, send the word over there, 
 
 That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming, 
 
 The drums rum-tumming everywhere — 
 
 So prepare. Say a prayer. 
 
 Send the word, send the word to beware — 
 
 We'll be over, we're coming over ! 
 
 And we won't come back till it's over, over there !" 
 
 When this song died away no other one was 
 started. The men were feeling very tired and 
 their hearts were filled with longing for the bil- 
 lets to which they were bound. But no man fell 
 out. The honour of the regiment demanded that 
 they should stick it to the end and they were 
 sticking it. When the third halt was called they 
 dropped limply to earth, their mouths hanging 
 open and rivers of sweat streaming down their 
 faces. Even Sullivan, the big Irishman, was 
 
292 The Dough Boys 
 
 feeling the strain of the night. But as he sank 
 on the roadway he turned to Burke and asked: 
 "How are ye feelin' now, me boy? How's the 
 heel?" 
 
 "Sore as hell," the youngster confessed. 
 
 "Then hand yer rifle over to me and I'll carry 
 it for you," said Sullivan. 
 
 "Not while there's breath in my body," said 
 the boy. "Thanks all the same, Sullivan." 
 
 The fourth hour was deadly. The men moved 
 wearily, grunting and stumbling, their appoint- 
 ments askew and their rifles deadweights in their 
 hands. There was no singing now and no smok- 
 ing. All faces wore a look of sluggish indif- 
 ference. The march which had begun centur- 
 ies ago would never come to an end. Water-bot- 
 tles were empty; feet ached; shoulders ached; 
 heads ached. Overhead and around them the 
 black night scowled pitilessly. Nobody grum- 
 bled for grumbling was a waste of energy. The 
 men had a job to perform; they had to march to 
 the appointed village and take up billets there 
 before dawn. Well, damn it! the job had to be 
 done ! and they would do it and damn the conse- 
 quences ! 
 
 Suddenly a figure detached itself from Sulli- 
 van's platoon. It was Top-sergeant Casey. He 
 slouched out to the side of the road, his feet mov- 
 
Back to Billets 293 
 
 ing ponderously, his back crooked like an old 
 man's. He came to a clumsy halt and turned to 
 the men. 
 
 "Come on my bully guys and hang on to the 
 step!" he shouted. "There's a regiment coming 
 along to the trenches, so buck up and show 'em 
 the stuff you're made of. It'll give them heart 
 goin' up front." 
 
 Casey went back to his place. Stiffy, the 
 Cockney, lit a cigarette, Sullivan put his black 
 clay in his mouth and Burke squared his shoul- 
 ders and threw out his chest. How his sore heel 
 rebelled when he braced up his legs ! He felt as 
 if he were rubbing it against broken glass. But 
 what did that matter ! He, like the others, had 
 to keep up the reputation of the old battalion. 
 
 The battalion bound for the trenches came into 
 sight and marched past, dark figures in the gloom 
 and the driving sleet, which was now sweeping 
 the desolate country. 
 
 "Come, boys, a song!" shouted Casey. Burke 
 led the singing and the men, dry of throat though 
 they were, joined in the song. 
 
 "The Infantry ! the Infantry ! with the dirt behind their 
 
 ears — 
 The Infantry ! the Infantry ! they can't get any beers, 
 But the Cavalry, Artillery and bloomin' Engineers 
 They cannot beat the Infantry in a hundred thousand 
 
 years I" 
 
294 The Dough Boys 
 
 The passing battalion slipped by on its way to 
 the trenches. The battalion, newly out, relapsed 
 into silence and Burke became conscious of his 
 painful heel again. 
 
 "It won't take us long to get there now," said 
 the Irishman. "And Glory be! but it's glad that 
 every man iv us will be when we get in under the 
 blankets." 
 
 "We've never been to this part o' France 
 afore," said Stiffy. "I wunner if there'll be 
 many nice girls in the place." 
 
 "It's them that's always in yer mind," said 
 Sullivan. "Which is not to be wondered at for 
 kind calls to kind all over the world, just the 
 same in Kingarrow as in Broadway and the same 
 at the back iv the front as in places where they 
 know nothin' about war, bar what they read in 
 the newspapers." 
 
 "They've begun singin' a song away in front," 
 said Stiffy. "Now I wunner wot for now and 
 all o' us dead beat." 
 
 "It's because the head iv the battalion has 
 touched the place where we're goin' to rest, no 
 doubt," said Sullivan. 
 
 Saying this he turned to Burke who was 
 trudging so wearily at his side. 
 
 "Well, gim'me yer rifle now that we're at the 
 
Back to Billets 295 
 
 heel iv the march, Bud, me boyo," he said. "Ye'll 
 get in aisier without it." 
 
 "Not while I'm in this battalion," said the 
 youngster. "Thanks all the same, Sullivan." 
 
 The song surged backward, and was taken up 
 by each successive platoon which hurled it as a 
 challenge against the stress of war. The prom- 
 ised land was reached and the men were pleased. 
 They would go into the village as conquerors, 
 men who dared and endured up front, soldiers 
 fit for the Big Job and all the hardships which 
 the Job entailed. 
 
 And with this song ringing through the night 
 the soldiers of the New World marched down the 
 roads of the Old, towards the billets in which 
 they would rest for a little while after their days 
 of toil in the lines of war. 
 
CHAPTER THE LAST 
 
 THE WAR WAIF 
 
 HE was all alone in the attic, standing in 
 an attitude of attention, his heels to- 
 gether and in line, his toes at an angle 
 of forty- five degrees, his legs braced up and head 
 and eyes looking much more than his own height. 
 He had to look up to see the bayonet which was 
 fixed to the rifle that leant against the wall. He 
 was a very small man, too small for khaki and the 
 appointments of a soldier. 
 
 He wore a khaki tunic which was much too 
 long; it hid his baggy trousers and its sleeves 
 fell over his outstretched fingers. The puttees 
 which he wore rolled down from his calves and 
 clustered in several loops round his sabots. He 
 wore an overseas cap, one flap loose and hanging 
 over his left eye. And his hair fell down in clus- 
 ters over his neck and stuck out in wisps round 
 his ears. In short, he was improperly dressed, 
 a most disreputable soldier, utterly unfitted for 
 a parade ground, and hardly passable as a soldier 
 in the back area where a certain laxity in dress 
 
 296 
 
The War Waif 297 
 
 was pardonable. But he never got into trouble 
 for a shortcoming like this. Privates raised 
 their hands to their caps when they met him; a 
 sergeant, a most strict disciplinarian too, once 
 gave his squad the order: "eyes right" to this 
 little man in khaki. Report had it that a Gen- 
 eral on his way through the village of Y 
 
 saluted the man in passing. 
 
 The age of the little soldier was seven, his 
 country was France. Tragedy stalked the inno- 
 cent child from the day when he first became 
 conscious of things. His mother was the pa- 
 tronne of a village cafe near the firing line. The 
 village was away up North near the scene of war 
 and battle had raged round his head since the 
 beginning of things. But the world in which he 
 lived was a very interesting one. He had seen 
 his father go away with others, marching off to 
 fight with his rifle over his shoulder. But that 
 was such a long time ago and he had almost for- 
 gotten it. Then one day, and he remembered 
 this vividly, a letter came to his mother and when 
 she read it she cried for a long while and kissed 
 her little boy as if she were never going to stop. 
 Then she went out into the street and shook her 
 hand at the east where the Germans held their 
 lines. The boy watched her do this and it fas- 
 cinated him. When she came back to the cafe 
 
298 The Dough Boys 
 
 he asked her to do it again. But she would not. 
 Instead she looked reproachfully at the boy and 
 kissed him. "Your father is dead," she said, and 
 wept afresh. 
 
 Soldiers often came to the village, French sol- 
 diers first and afterwards other men who were 
 dressed in a different uniform and spoke in a 
 voice he did not understand. They always came 
 to the place singing at the tops of their voices. 
 The boy liked these soldiers and was glad when 
 they billeted at the cafe. They used to give him 
 cakes, sweets, buttons and badges. 
 
 Then, one day when he was sitting in the cel- 
 lar, in which his mother had placed him while 
 she went out to wash some linen at the village 
 pump, a shell fell on the street and killed his 
 mother. After this happened he was taken away 
 from the cafe and handed over to a strange 
 woman whom he had never seen before. This 
 woman took him away by train to her home and 
 
 there, in the village of Y , we find him now, 
 
 taking stock of an attic in which some American 
 soldiers were billeted, his little mind steeped in 
 reflection. Everything there attracted him, the 
 rifles and bayonets, the entrenching tools and 
 ammunition pouches. If he were a big man he 
 would carry all these and swing up the road at 
 night and come back singing at dawn. Would 
 
The War Waif 299 
 
 he ever become big like these men, he wondered, 
 and thought deeply of this strange problem. And 
 as he thought of this his keen eyes noticed a par- 
 cel which lay on a blanket in the corner. It was 
 the blanket on which one of the men who had 
 come there that morning had slept. The boy 
 stepped over to the parcel, lifted it up in his hands 
 and felt it, full of a childish curiosity as to its 
 contents. What did it contain? Some great 
 treasure probably. Should he open it and see 
 what was inside? If he opened it quickly he 
 would have time to wrap it up again before the 
 soldiers returned. There were three men stay- 
 ing in the house and they had come back with 
 their battalion from the trenches that morning. 
 They slept till noon and when they got up they 
 went out to the nearest cafe. The boy did not 
 see them as yet for he had been out all the morn- 
 ing playing on the street and when he came back 
 he found that the soldiers were not in their bil- 
 lets. 
 
 He opened the parcel with trembling fingers 
 and took from it — a German helmet! This was 
 a souvenir for which the little boy had a great 
 longing. Ever since he could remember his lit- 
 tle heart was set on the "casque a pointe boche" 
 as a souvenir. Away back in the village where 
 he lived with his mother he saw soldiers wear 
 
300 The Dough Boys 
 
 them, young hearty soldiers, who came into the 
 cafe daily after their trying and arduous occu- 
 pation on the fields of war. They came in sing- 
 ing and laughing, but never had he seen them 
 laugh so heartily as when they wore helmets 
 which belonged at one time to men of the enemy 
 army. The soldiers seemed to treasure these 
 helmets more than they treasured their lives. 
 They wore them when walking out in the evening 
 and the girls of the place crowded round the 
 wearers. Men without these helmets were 
 passed by in silence, but the soldiers who wore 
 them were welcomed everywhere. 
 
 The youngster came to know that certain 
 things had to happen before these helmets came 
 to his village. On the night preceding the day 
 on which they came in big numbers the sky had 
 to be lit up by red flames and the big shells had 
 to burst across the world. Another thing hap- 
 pened also and the boy did not like this at all. 
 He had to go down into the cellar when the noise 
 started and remain there with his mother until 
 it was all over. But on the days following when 
 the soldiers came back singing they brought any 
 amount of helmets with them, the great souve- 
 nirs that the boy always longed for. Other sou- 
 venirs he had in plenty, badges, buttons, hat- 
 cords and percussion caps, but the real and 
 
The War Waif 301 
 
 proper souvenir never came to hand. Once there 
 was a soldier, a big red-haired American who 
 promised to bring him one, but it never came. 
 
 Anyway here was one now, in the boy's hand, 
 a real, proper one with a spike that glittered 
 like gold and an eagle with splendid wings. If 
 he was the possessor of that he would be proud 
 and happy and maybe a little vain. But this was 
 not to be wondered at, and a proud little soldier 
 of seven, wearing a German helmet and strut- 
 ting along the village street could be forgiven his 
 moment of vanity. 
 
 Suddenly he heard voices downstairs, the 
 voices of men who spoke in a tongue which he 
 did not understand. He shoved the helmet into 
 its wrapper and began to tie the string round it. 
 
 "Glory be! but it's not much iv a billet this 
 one," said one voice. "The people that live here 
 must be in great poverty." 
 
 "There's a woman and a little boy here, but I 
 don't think there is any one else," said a second 
 voice. "I saw the boy running along the street 
 this morning dressed in khaki, just like a sol- 
 dier." 
 
 "I was talkin' wiv the old woman 'fore any o' 
 you two showed a leg and she was tellin' me that 
 the kid, a nephew of her own, is a refugee," said 
 a third voice. "The boy's father was killed in 
 
302 The Dough Boys 
 
 the trenches and his muvver was killed by a shell 
 when she was washin' clothes at a pump in a vil- 
 lage miles away from 'ere." 
 
 "Glory be! but it's the hard life that the people 
 iv this country are havin'," said the first voice. 
 "It's first the fathers that are killed, then it's the 
 mothers and maybe after that the children. 
 Glory! but there's no fun in the country on the 
 lip iv the line." 
 
 The men ceased speaking and the youngster, 
 busy at the job of packing the helmet, heard them 
 clambering up the steep stairs to the attic. 
 
 Sullivan, first in, caught the boy in the act. 
 
 "Ye wee limb iv perdition ye, is it tryin' to 
 thieve me helmet that ye are?" shouted the Irish- 
 man, coming forward. 
 
 The boy shrank back and fixed a pair of fright- 
 ened eyes on the soldier. Then a glad look stole 
 over the little fellow's face and he rose to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Toolivan !" he sobbed, and ran into the Irish- 
 man's arms. 
 
 "Mother iv God!" cried the Irishman, catching 
 the youngster in his arms and heaving him to the 
 roof. "Mother iv God! Stiffy, come here! 
 Burke, come here! Who do ye think we've 
 found?" 
 
 "Who?" asked the other two soldiers, gazing 
 
The War Waif 303 
 
 at the boy in khaki but failing to recognise him. 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "Gustave," said Sullivan. "Wee Gustave, the 
 divil!" 
 
 With these words he kissed the boy several 
 times in succession. Then he lifted the kicking 
 and laughing Gustave and raised him with one 
 great sweep and almost touched the rafters with 
 the youngster's head. 
 
 "But to think iv him losing his poor mother," 
 he said, as Gustave sat in the corner a few min- 
 utes afterward with his helmet on his head, and 
 a packet of sweeties in his hand. "The Cafe 
 Bienvenu was a far and away more comfortable 
 place than this, and he had his mother to watch 
 over him. This woman here may not be so kind, 
 although she's Gustave's aunt. Women are such 
 funny creatures and no two are ever alike." 
 
 "Well, there isn't as much risk of getting killed 
 here," said Burke. "It's well out of artillery 
 range." 
 
 "But that's not all that the boyo's wantin'," 
 said Sullivan, taking his clay from his pocket 
 and putting it in his mouth. "He's too fine a 
 child to be left here on his lone. We must bring 
 him up as a gentleman. If we had old Toughey 
 here to ask him his opinion he might be able to 
 
304 The Dough Boys 
 
 see some way iv helpin' the boy. ... Or maybe 
 if we'd talk to Father Connor about it." 
 
 "Wot the 'ell would Holy Joe know about it?" 
 asked Stiffy. " 'E 'as 'is work cut out for 'im as 
 it is, savin' our bloomin' souls, and 'e wouldn't 
 thank ye for askin' 'im to look after this little 
 ragamuffin." 
 
 "Ye've always a wrong opinion iv yer betters, 
 Stiffy," said the Irishman. "Father Connor 
 would help the boy, I know, but the good man 
 has so much on his hands that I haven't the heart 
 to ask him. But if old Toughey was here." 
 
 " 'E won't be back wiv us for some time," said 
 Stiffy. "I 'eard the Major talkin' about 'im this 
 mornin' and 'e said that it'll be six months 'fore 
 the Colonel's fit for the trenches again." 
 
 "But he is getting along top-hole, consider- 
 ing," said Burke, who had received a letter from 
 Everett a few days before. 
 
 "Which is what we all wish for," said Sulli- 
 van. "But that aside for a minut, what's to be 
 done with the boy? Whatever else happens we 
 must see about him. It's our duty. We have 
 come across here to fight for the preservation iv 
 the home and it's well in accord with these prin- 
 ciples to help this poor little boy. . . . It's yer- 
 self that we're talkin' about, Gustave, ye wee 
 divil ye," said Sullivan, shaking a mighty fist at 
 
The War Waif 305 
 
 the boy who was gazing with big, serious eyes at 
 the Irishman. 
 
 "Well, wot can we do?" asked Stiff y. 
 
 Burke had a sudden inspiration. 
 
 "I know," he said. "That paper recently 
 brought out by the A. E. F., The Stars and 
 Stripes, has started the scheme to help the waifs 
 and strays of the firing zone, to help the poor 
 orphans who have no home to get some educa- 
 tion and learn a trade. A party of men join to- 
 gether and each of them pays a sum and when 
 it reaches a certain figure they send it to The 
 Stars and Stripes. The newspaper hands the 
 money over to the Red Cross people and they 
 take a child in charge and give it an education. 
 They either select a child, or you can select it 
 yourself." 
 
 "And 'ave they 'elped many?" asked Stiff y. 
 
 "Close on a hundred up to now," said Burke. 
 
 "Then begorra! it's up to us to make it a 
 hundred and one," said the Irishman. "A hun- 
 dred and one, boyos, a hundred and one!" 
 
 As he spoke he raised his right hand which 
 held his black clay in the air and brought it down 
 with a smack on the palm of the other hand and 
 smashing his pipe to smithereens. 
 
 "The best clay I've ever had in me mouth," he 
 said. "But that doesn't matter a damn. The 
 
306 The Dough Boys 
 
 thing now is to pay for the education iv wee Gus- 
 tave and make a gentleman iv him. Do yees, the 
 two iv yees, agree to that?" 
 
 "We agree," said both youngsters in one voice. 
 
 The three of them looked at the little boy who 
 was munching his chocolate on the blanket ut- 
 terly oblivious of the soldiers' presence. 
 
 "Gustave, ye dough boy, come here," said the 
 Irishman, and reaching out he caught the child 
 in his arms and held him to his breast. The choc- 
 olate dropped to the floor. 
 
 "From now on ye're our mascot, Gustave, the 
 dough boy," said Sullivan. "And we're goin' to 
 help ye till ye're able to help yerself. And may 
 God bless ye and be good to ye for ever and ever." 
 
 "Amen," said Burke in a voice that was very 
 solemn. 
 
 "The damned little monkey!" said Stiffy and 
 there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 The Irishman with one mighty sweep raised 
 Gustave to the roof, then placed him on the 
 ground. The little tot looked round for a mo- 
 ment, then saw the chocolate and put it in his 
 mouth. 
 
 "They're all the same wherever ye are," said 
 Sullivan. "The boy in a billet is kin to the boy 
 in a bungalow and childre are childre all the 
 world over."