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Faces came and went, and it's like a horrible dream. The old fellow beside me gave a yell and dropped, hit in the back by a piece of one of the exploding grenades. I was out of ammunition and I flung my revolver at the nearest Fritzie, and thinks I, "It's all up now, and I don't care a d anyway."
When we're having a bad time, we glance across No Man's Land and say, "Poor old Fritzie, he's getting the worst of it." That thought helps. An attack is a relaxation from the interminable monotony. It means that we shall exchange the old mud, in which we have been living, for new mud which may be better.
They plug us with their rifles An' they let their shrapnel fly, But they never takes a pot at us Exceptin' on the sly. Chorus "Fritzie w'en you comin' out? This wot you calls a fight? You won't never get to Calais Always keepin' out o' sight. "We're a goin' back to Blightey Wot's the use a-witin' 'ere Like a lot o' bloomin' mud-larks Fer old Fritzie to appear?
Kipe yer fingers crossed w'en yer go in there, Yank; tike me advice!" "I hope I go there too if you're going," said Tom, "'cause you make it seem not so bad, kind of, bein' a prisoner." "Hi, Fritzie!" the sailor called. "I got me reward for 'eroism!"
Our telephonist 'phoned headquarters for the weightier women to get busy, telling them of our plight, and inside six minutes the ladies of larger girth, the 9.02 howitzers, started debating the question with Fritzie so vigorously that inside of thirty minutes not a single reply was to be had from their guns. "Stand down!" and cleaning our guns, gun pits and carrying ammunition, busied us.
"Oh, Fritzie," remonstrated the driver, "that's rotten bad work. You'll have to do better than that." Again and again, in groups of four, the shells came roaring in, but the car had passed out of that particular zone of danger, and sped safely on its way. "Do you have this sort of thing every night?" enquired Barry. "Oh, no," cheerfully replied the driver.
That was the end, so far as Bridgeboro was concerned, of the jovial, good-hearted grocer, and Fritzie and little Emmy and "Mooder" in her stiff, spotless white apron. It seemed almost unbelievable. "A Hun is a Hun," said Pete, "'n' that's all thar is to't." "What did they do with all the stuff?" Tom asked. Pete shrugged his shoulders.
"'Ullo, Fritzie," said someone in a cheerful voice. "Got a Blighty?" The German did not understand and looked utterly miserable. He sat down timidly with the others. The room was dark except for the glow given out by the stove that lit up the hands and faces of those around it. Suddenly a man shouted from the background: "Them bastard Fritzes I'd poison the 'ole lot."
He said, "Oh, you know the sandbags we rolled out of the way to fire through last night? well, I thought some one might be walking past and get a bullet through his bean, as a fellow had farther down the trench, so I put up my arm to roll the bag into place, and bingo! Fritzie was right on the job."
The only way would be to go down around through Switzerland around the end of the line, kind of." "Down through Alsice," grunted Tennert. "'E'd 'ave a 'underd miles of it," said Freddie. "Unless Fritzie offered 'im a carriage. Hi, Fritzie, w'en do we have tea?"
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