It is a
very--a vastly different matter. We go into the trenches in single file,
each man about six paces from his nearest comrade. There is no question
about keeping behind. Instinct takes care of that.
A man may have a touch of lumbago; he may have a rheumatic pain. None of
these things matters to him on the way "in." He can bend his back quickly
enough as he passes along. There are always a few bullets dropping near by.
One will hit the mud somewhere around his feet. The boy nearest springs as
from a catapult until he is close to the comrade ahead of him. No; he never
springs back. If he did ... he would be the man ahead. He would be in
front. Nuffin' doin'--the whole idea is to keep behind; there is no doubt
of that.
But the guide is very vigilant. All troops are guided to their positions,
and the man on this ticklish job is nearly always a sergeant. He has an
eagle eye, and a feline sense of hearing. He will note your skip forward.
"Keep your paces, lads ... keep your paces." His voice booms altogether too
loud for us.
"Hush! for the love o' Mike, Sergeant, not so loud." He chuckles.
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