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Updated: May 28, 2025
Bobby caught his breath. He was just nineteen, and this was his first encounter with sudden death. "Who is it?" he asked unsteadily. The corporal saluted. "Private M'Leary, sirr. That last shot from the trench-mortar got him. It came in kin' o' sideways. He was sittin' at the end of his dug-oot, gettin' his tea. Stretcher party, advance!"
I was gaun' back wounded, with this " he indicates an arm strapped close to his side "and there was six Fritzes came crawlin' oot o' a dug-oot, and gave themselves up tae me me, that was gaun' back wounded, withoot so much as my jack-knife! Demorralised that's it!"
And it was a fine nicht last nicht, especially when the shellin' was gaun on! Especially in number seeven dug-oot!" There was a short silence. Number seven dug-out was no more, and five of its late occupants were now lying under their waterproof sheets, not a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre.
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