I
It was a long and dreary tramp back to the dug-out, and they arrived almost dead beat. Rawley flung himself full length upon his bunk, too tired and sick at heart even to smoke. Alf crept under his frowzy blankets and dozed. Hunger, however, roused them. Unlike the majority of the raiders, they had eaten little since morning, and as soon as the more immediate aches of fatigue had subsided, they began to think of food and the luxuries they had brought from the village. The ham was set out on the rickety table, one of the bottles of wine, a long French loaf, some real fresh farm butter and a tin of peaches. It was a feast, and they did full justice to it. The wine and the food dispelled what remained of their fatigue, and Rawley, with his pipe drawing well, and his bootless feet wrapped in soft, comfortable sandbags, was no longer in despair.
“Damn that swine Kelly,” he cried. “I’ve had enough of him, the murdering hound. I’ve done some pretty bloody things since I took to this God-forsaken devastated area, but I draw the line at murder and rape and robbing and burning old women’s cottages. If I can’t live without that, I’ll starve. But I can live without that. My brains are as good as Kelly’s—and a damn sight better. And I’m going to use ’em. I’m going to scrounge my own rations, and there will be no murdering and burning about it. It’s the E.F.C. and the War Office that’s going to lose; not old peasants and their wives.”
Alf paused in his job of trying to pick the lock of the suit-case with a bit of wire. He was worried about it. It was a beautiful leather suit-case, and he was sure there was something valuable inside. He did not want to have to smash the lock. He was only half listening to what Rawley was saying. He re-bent the wire and again inserted it into the lock. “But Kelly won’t stand for that,” he said conversationally. “We’ll have to join in his stunts. An’ if he twigs you’re gettin’ stuff on your own, he’ll make you share out.”
“He damn well won’t,” cried Rawley decisively. “Because he won’t know anything about it in the first place, and he won’t get the chance in the second. I’m going to clear out of this. There’s plenty of room in this God-forsaken desert, and I’m going to find a place that’s a good many miles from Mr. Kelly and his gang of hooligans. You can stay if you like.”
Alf forgot his suit-case. He regarded Rawley with dismay. “What, you going to leave ’ere!” he cried. He glanced round the dug-out which had never before seemed so cosy. “You going to leave all this—what we’ve taken weeks to make all cushy!”
Rawley nodded. “I expect there are other palaces in the devastated area nearly as luxurious as this,” he said, with a grim smile. “But you are not bound to go unless you want to.”
Alf took a cigarette from one of the new tins they had brought from the village. He lighted it with care at the lamp and sat down again on his bunk. He surveyed the dug-out in silence, the cigarette held between the first finger and thumb of one of the dirty hands that rested on his knees. He flicked away the ash and took another puff, and by projecting his lower lip sent the smoke spurting upwards past his face. He watched it a moment with upturned eyes. Then he said, shortly, “I’m with yer, mate.”
“Good for you!” said Rawley. “Then we’ll stick together, and we’ll make a damn sight better and cleaner living than Kelly does.”
“Yes, I’m with you,” went on Alf solemnly. His hands still rested on his knees, and a spiral of smoke rose from the cigarette between his finger and thumb. “I didn’t never go to no Sunday school, but I reckon Kelly’s a bit too hot for me. I didn’t ’arf get the wind up when that fire started. Arskin’ for trouble, that was.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and took another puff. “This district’s going to be bleedin’ unhealthy afore long, mark my words. I can see it acomin’. Yes, mate, you’re right. We’ll move afore someone calls for the rent.”
Rawley knocked out his pipe and opened a fresh tin of tobacco. “The question is, where to go,” he said, as he pushed the strands into the warm bowl. “Of course, the farther the better.” He got up and took from a shelf some old maps he had found in various dug-outs. “The scheme would be to take a little stuff with us and go exploring. Then when we have found a suitable place, we can dump the stuff and come back for the rest.” He opened the maps and scanned them thoughtfully. “Do you know, I believe it would be safer and in many ways more convenient to find a place on the edge of the devastated area near a main road.” He studied the maps again. “Somewhere in the neighbourhood of Albert for instance. That’s far enough away from Kelly to be quite comfortable and near enough to places like Bapaume where there ought to be canteens and dumps worth looting. Unfortunately I don’t know that part of the world.”
“I do,” said Alf. “Too bleedin’ well. I was there all ’16, ever since we come down from Bethune for the Somme.” Suddenly he smote his thigh with such vigour that the cigarette between his fingers dropped to the floor. He picked it up and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. “Boy, I know the very place! We was there in August ’16. We ’ad the guns on the edge of a little wood, though there weren’t much of a wood about it, if you know what I mean. We rigged up bivvys in an old Jerry trench what ran through it. And the orficers had a cushy little place in a cellar. Yer see there was an ’ouse in the middle of the wood, what ’ad been knocked flat, ’an they had the mess in the cellar underneath. It was one of them arched places—you know, like them places under a church. Keep out the biggest stuff and dry as a bone. I went down there once with a message for the captain, and coo, it looked orl right! They had a lot of them saucy French coloured pitchers round the walls, and a proper white tablecloth on the table. Looked just like home, it did.”
“Whereabouts was it?” asked Rawley.
“Nigh to Contalmaison; betwixt there and La Boiselle. But it warn’t too healthy then, ’cause Jerry was in Ovillers and shootin’ pretty nearly into our backs. But we pushed him out of that on September 13th.”
Rawley was studying the map. “You must have been somewhere here,” he said, dabbing a finger.
Alf peered over his shoulder. “What’s that place there?”
“Poizières.”
“That’s right. We was facin’ Poizières, only you couldn’t see it from the battery ’cause the guns was in a holler. Contalmaison, or what was left of it, was on our right, on the other side of the holler.”
“I’ve got you now,” said Rawley. “There is a little valley west of the village. You must have had this road running diagonally across your flank. It runs through Poizières—to Bapaume.”
“That’s right,” said Alf excitedly. “The Bapaume road. It was about ’arf a mile away. You could see it when you went up to the top of the slope.”
Rawley made a mark on the map. “This one-over-a-hundred-thousand map only shows the big woods, but I’ve fixed the spot within a hundred yards or so. It sounds as though it were just the place we’re after. Anyway, we will go and have a look at it.” He folded up the map. “We’ll turn in for a spot of sleep and then off we go.”
Alf lighted a fresh cigarette from the stump of an old one and swung his legs on the bunk. “Coo, why didn’t I think of that before!” he exclaimed. “Why, we shall be a ’eap better off there than we are ’ere.”
Rawley was taking off his coat. “What about water?” he asked suddenly.
“There’s a well belongin’ to the ’ouse, but we never used it,” said Alf.
“Well, there is bound to be one in Contalmaison, anyway.”
Alf rose with a yawn, and began to take off his coat, but he stopped with his arms outstretched as a sudden thud sounded from the shaft leading to the trench. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
They both stood motionless looking towards the shaft. A moment later the noise was repeated. “Someone knocking at the door,” said Rawley. They always blocked the narrow entrance of the shaft with a baulk of timber, wedged into place with a small pit-prop.
Alf’s face had grown pale under its covering of dirt. “The bleedin’ red caps,” he whispered.
“Not likely—so soon,” said Rawley.
Alf recovered himself and took his big revolver from the shelf over his bunk. “I’ll go and have a listen,” he whispered, and tip-toed off up the steps.
Rawley heard the sound of muffled voices, and then of footsteps approaching. Alf came back into the dug-out, followed by a man whom Rawley recognized as one of Kelly’s bodyguard.
“It’s a message from Kelly,” said Alf. “He says we’ve got to clear out.”
The man looked round the dug-out and then at Rawley. “Yes,” he said. “There’s going to be trouble over that little dust up this afternoon. Some of the A.P.M.’s push came into the village soon after we left, and they’ll be nosing around here before long, I shouldn’t wonder. You’re all to come right along to the redoubt. That’s Kelly’s orders.” He nodded towards the two rifles that Alf kept in a corner. “Bring those along and all the ammo you’ve got. We’ll give that bloody A.P.M. the surprise of his life if he comes nosing round here.”
Rawley had been regarding the speaker with silent hostility, and something of this must have showed in his face, for the man added sharply: “Now then, jump to it. Pack up and clear.”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to clear out all right,” said Rawley. “But you can tell Kelly to go to hell. We’re not going to his redoubt to shoot down honest men just to help to save his dirty skin.” The man had turned towards the shaft, but he spun round at Rawley’s words, and there was an ugly look on his face. “Oh, you’re not, aren’t you!” he growled. “Too bloody proud to fight, eh!” He spat contemptuously on the floor. “Feet too bloody cold, you mean. You think you’re going to clear out and save your own flaming skin. P’raps you think you’ll put yourself all right with the red caps by showing them where your pals are cached. I should ruddy well smile! Too bloomin’ soft-hearted to shoot honest men!”
Rawley whipped up Alf’s revolver from the table. “Honest men, yes, but not you and your sort. Clear out, quick!”
The fellow backed slowly with contracted brows. “All right,” he growled. “But don’t you think you’ll get away with this.” Then he turned suddenly and dived up the steps.
Rawley followed slowly and re-blocked the entrance with the baulk of timber. He wedged it firmly with the pit-prop and returned to the dug-out.
II
Alf was sitting dejectedly upon his bunk. “You didn’t ought to have done that,” he said. “Kelly’s a fair devil when he’s riled.”
Rawley flung the revolver noisily on the table. “Kelly can go to hell,” he cried.
“But why didn’t you tell that bloke we was coming to the redoubt, then when he’d gone we could’ve nipped off on the quiet,” persisted Alf, in an aggrieved tone.
Rawley thumped the table with his hand. “Because I’m not going to bother to lie to a swine like that,” he yelled.
Alf shrugged his shoulders and got off his bunk. “Well, we’ve done it now, anyway,” he said, with a resigned sigh. “And the sooner we partit from this neighbourhood the better.” He picked up a sack and began filling it.
Rawley watched him moodily for a few moments, and then picked up another sack. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “No good meeting trouble when you can avoid it.”
Alf did not pause in his task of stuffing tins into the sack. “Too true,” he agreed. “Once I get on top there, you won’t see me for dust.”
Rawley threw down his sack. “Look here,” he said. “It’s no good just stuffing things in. We can’t take everything, that’s obvious. And it’s very doubtful if we shall be able to come back for more later. So let’s decide what we are going to take. It’s no good loading ourselves up so that we can’t move.”
They spread their possessions out on the floor—their store of food, tools, candle ends, blankets and clothing. Rawley surveyed them with his hands in his pockets. “Well, it’s pretty clear that we can’t take a quarter of that,” he said.
Alf nodded dolefully. “It do seem ’ard lines to ’ave to leave all that good stuff,” he complained.
“Well, let’s eliminate,” said Rawley. He indicated the battered gramophone, and its one warped record with his toe. “That’s out, anyway. And we can’t take the lamp or the oil; therefore the candles must come. The ham comes, of course, and the bulk of the tinned stuff. There’s those two remaining bottles of wine. Can’t possibly take them. Must drink ’em before we go, that’s all. Then blankets; must have those. And we’ll roll up some underclothes inside ’em.” He pulled his blankets from his bunk. “We will roll up the blankets first and strap them on, and then we will see how much more we can carry comfortably.”
Rawley spread his blankets on the floor, placed his spare underclothes and one or two treasures on top, and began to roll them up. A dull thud from the direction of the steps stopped him. He paused with his head raised, listening. A scraping noise came faintly from the top of the shaft. Neither spoke. The scratching and bumping noise continued. Rawley rose from his knees and silently took one of the rifles from the corner. He pulled back the bolt. The magazine was full. He re-shot the bolt, sending a round into the breach. Alf too rose to his feet, and his hand went out to his revolver.
Rawley walked to the foot of the shaft and stood with one foot on the bottom step. He held the rifle lightly in his two hands. He shouted up the shaft, “Keep out of here. You haven’t got an earthly. We can shoot you down one by one as you come—and we will if you try it.”
There was no reply. The noises had ceased, and an uncanny silence reigned. Rawley moved from the foot of the shaft and glanced round the dug-out. His glance rested on the lamp that hung from the centre beam. His eye travelled from it to the shaft; then he moved the lamp to a nail nearer the wall. “They might try to shoot out the light,” he said, in a low voice.
They waited side by side for the attack, their eyes fixed on the foot of the shaft, their ears strained to catch the slightest sound. But none came.
Rawley lowered the butt of his rifle to the floor. “They’ve thought better of it,” he said. “They would not have stood an earthly, and they know it.” He lifted his foot to step over his roll of blankets on the floor, but he never completed the pace. A great gust of hot air leapt from the foot of the shaft, caught him up, and hurled him to the floor. The light was extinguished; the dug-out vibrated as though rocked by an earthquake; and a mighty roar smote his ear drums.
He lay where he had fallen, half stunned by concussion, but his experiences under bombardment in the gun-pits had taught him to think quickly in moments such as this. One hand still retained its grasp of the rifle, and before the earth, splintered timber and stones had ceased to hurtle through the darkness, he dragged himself to a sitting position and pushed forward the safety-catch. “Alf!” he cried. “Alf! Look out; they’ll try to rush us now.”
Alf’s voice grunted from the darkness beside him. No other sound, except the trickle of a few pebbles down the steps, broke the silence. “You all right?” whispered Rawley.
“Yes.”
“Got your revolver?”
“Yes.”
A gallery of a deserted coal mine could not have been darker or more silent. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of high explosive.
They had looted a packet of matches from the village canteen. Rawley had a box in his pocket. “Look out,” he whispered. “Keep your eye on the shaft. I’m going to strike a light. If anyone appears—shoot.”
A match scraped on the box, and a little flame spluttered up, disclosing smoky fumes wreathed like a fog around them, and Alf propped on one elbow, his revolver pointing somewhat shakily towards the shaft foot. The floor of the dug-out was littered with earth and stones. No sound came from the shaft.
The lamp lay smashed beside the overturned table, but among the stores that were spread out on the floor lay their collection of candle ends. Rawley slipped his left arm through the sling of his rifle and crawled forward, holding the half-burned match in his right hand. He propped up a candle end and lighted it. Then without removing his eyes from the foot of the shaft, he righted the table with one hand, placed the candle on it, and rose to his feet.
Alf too rose cautiously.
Rawley, with a finger on the trigger guard, tip-toed to the shaft, paused a moment listening, and disappeared up the steps.
He was back in a moment, and leaned his rifle carelessly against the wall. “Well?” whispered Alf, who stood holding his revolver ready.
“It’s all right,” said Rawley in natural tones. “You can put that down. They’re not coming.”
Alf slowly lowered his revolver. “’Ow do you know they ain’t comin’?” he demanded.
Rawley pulled his pipe from his pocket, shook some earth from the bowl, and began filling it deliberately. “ ’Ow do you know?” repeated Alf.
Rawley did not look up. “They can’t,” he said. “They’ve blown in the shaft.”
Alf’s jaw dropped. “Watcher mean?” he said.
Rawley jerked his head towards the shaft. “Go and see for yourself.”
Alf gazed at Rawley for a moment, and then he stumbled quickly across to the foot of the shaft and disappeared. He re-appeared slowly, dropped his revolver on the table, and sat down on his earth-sprinkled bunk. He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimy hand. “Yars they’ve got us all right,” he said dejectedly.
Rawley threw away the match with which he had extravagantly been lighting his pipe. “What do you mean—‘got us’?” he demanded.
“Got us!” repeated Alf, with vehemence. “Bloody well got us. We’re buried alive, ain’t we? An’ all through your ruddy yappin’ with that chap.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Rawley. “We can dig ourselves out.”
“What, with a trenchin’ tool!” exclaimed Alf, with caustic sarcasm. “We ain’t got nothin’ else, you know that. An’ there’s thirty foot o’ muck there, if there’s an inch.”
“It will be a long job, I know,” said Rawley. “But we’ve plenty of time. We’ve any amount of grub and water—how about the water, though!” He strode across and inspected the tins. “One full and one half full, including several handfuls of earth. That’s enough, if we go easy.” He came back and sat down on the edge of his bunk. “What they have forgotten is”—he nodded towards the little alcove where the bucket fire was kept—“is that. They’ve forgotten the pipe. If they’d blocked that up, we would have been suffocated.”
Alf took a brighter view of the situation. “Oh, well,” he said, “I s’pose you’re right. We might ’ave been foot-sloggin’ it outside an’ ’ere we are still in ’ome sweet ’ome. It’s a perishin’ ill wind what blows nobody no good! But they’ve made a bleedin’ mess,” he added, as he surveyed the rubble-littered floor.
“Oh, well, let’s clear it up,” said Rawley. He put the ham on the table and flicked off the dirt with a bit of rag.
“’Ow do you reckon they did it?” asked Alf.
“Shoved a six-inch or a toffee apple outside the plank and touched it off with a plunger. Easy enough.”
Alf went down on his knees and shook his blankets to rid them of the soil which covered them; but the thud of some heavy object falling in the alcove made him pause and turn his head in that direction. And at the same moment Rawley, it seemed, went mad; he leapt upon Alf like an avalanche and knocked him flat.
A stunning, ripping crack smote the ear-drums like a blow; the candle went out; and a number of deep-toned buzzing noises, like a flight of bumble bees, droned noisily across the darkness and ended in a series of sharp smacks and dull thuds.
Rawley released his hold. “All right?” he asked.
“What the hell was that?” panted Alf.
“Mills’ bomb. I saw it just as it landed. The swine must have dropped it down the chimney.” He began to crawl across the floor. “Don’t get up,” he said. “There may be more to follow.” His outstretched arm touched the table leg, and he raised himself, and felt along the top for the candle. He found it, and felt in his pocket for the matches. But he did not strike one; instead he put the candle in his pocket. “If they look down the chimney they will see the light,” he muttered. “We shall hear it drop, anyway.” He tilted the table on to its side and dragged it back to where Alf lay. They crouched behind it listening.
Rawley could hear the beating of his own heart and Alf’s laboured breathing; there was no other sound except the intermittent scuffling of a rat behind the revetment. He held his breath and strained his ears. He thought he could detect a faint sound in the direction of the chimney. Yes, he was sure now: a scraping noise, but very faint.
A second explosion shook the dug-out, but the sound was muffled and seemed to come from above. Stones pattered on the earth floor and clattered as they hit the invisible bucket. Then silence settled down once more.
Rawley took the candle end from his pocket and lighted it. He scrambled to his feet and righted the table. Alf too rose gingerly. “Is it all right?” he asked.
Rawley did not reply. He stood looking down at the stones and earth that was mingled with the wood ash in the fire bucket and lay on the floor round about. Then he put his head down and looked up the chimney.
“Look out!” cried Alf. “If they drops another . . .”
Rawley turned from the alcove and looked round the dug-out without speaking. Then he strode across to Alf’s bunk and took a cigarette from the tin on the shelf above. He lighted it at the candle and puffed at it for a moment. Then he strode to the alcove and puffed smoke across the bottom of the chimney. The blue wreaths curled lazily along the low roof of the recess; a little disappeared slowly up the chimney.
Rawley dropped the cigarette into the fire-bucket, and went and sat on the edge of his bunk. Mechanically he pulled out his pipe and filled it. Alf watched him in silence. “What ’ave they done?” he asked at last.
Rawley pulled the table to him and lighted his pipe at the candle. “They’ve blocked up the chimney,” he said.
“Are ye sure?” demanded Alf.
“’Fraid so; there’s no draught.”
Alf dropped rather wearily on to the edge of his bunk. His face was a little pale. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Well, that’s torn it, right up the leg. Can’t we do nothin’?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to think. Of course, we ought to put that out.” He nodded towards the candle. “And I ought not to smoke. Burning up air. But what’s the odds, anyway.”
“Couldn’t we dig ourselves out?”
Rawley shook his head. “Not in time. The devil of it is, that chimney is a good thirty feet long, and we’ve got nothing that would go up—not that it would be likely to be any good if we had.” He looked round the dug-out, estimating the latent possibilities of each article it contained. Suddenly he jumped to his feet. “By jove, of course—the rifles!” He took his rifle from the floor where it had fallen, and pushed forward the safety-catch. Alf, too, had dived for his rifle and was ramming a round in the breech. Rawley suddenly dropped his butt on the floor. “Wait a minute,” he cried. “Go easy. They may still be up there, and if we clear the chimney, they’ll only block it up again. We must let them think they have done it all right, and give them time to go away.” He sat down again on the edge of his bunk.
Alf stood with his rifle balanced in his hands. “I don’t like waitin’,” he said. “Fair gives me the creeps, it do. Supposin’ the air give out. . . .”
“It won’t yet awhile,” said Rawley. “We will wait ten minutes by your watch. Hang it up where we can see it.”
Alf put down his rifle and hung up the watch. “Seem to be gettin’ pretty phuggy already,” he said nervously.
Rawley had thought the same himself, but had not liked to put his thoughts into words. “It’s the fumes from the H.E.,” he said carelessly. “If we put out the candle it will help.”
But Alf shook his head vehemently. “No, mate; if I’m going west, let’s ’ave a light. It’ll be more cheerful-like than in the dark.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the watch. “Supposin’ the rifle won’t clear it.”
“It must,” said Rawley. “Let’s see—how much earth will a bullet penetrate? It’s in Musketry Regs. What is it now? . . . three feet, I believe. That’s if it’s loose earth. If you ram it tight the resisting power is less. The earth up there is probably pretty tight, so we’ll go through three feet all right. There can’t be more than six or seven feet of earth wedged in the pipe, if that. So we have only to keep shooting away, and we must get through. By the by, how much ammunition have we got?”
“There’s pretty nearly a full box,” said Alf.
“No trouble on that score then. You see, we must get through—unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless—well, unless they’ve wedged a dud in the chimney. But no, they cannot have done that. There would have been no need of that explosion then. They’ve either blown in the top of the chimney or exploded a grenade a little way down. It sounded to me like a grenade.” He glanced at the watch. “Another five minutes.”
Alf groaned.
“Look here, how about a drink to put some buck into us?” suggested Rawley. “We can’t take those two bottles with us, anyway. Come on.” He took up one of the bottles wrapped it in a sandbag, and neatly knocked off the neck. He filled their two mugs and pushed one towards Alf. He raised his mug and glanced round the dug-out. Then he stood up and bowed towards his rifle that leaned against the wall. “Here’s to Mr. Lee-Enfield,” he said. “Short Mr. Lee-Enfield—coupled with the name of that pushing little fellow Mr. Mark Six, or whatever it is, Three-O-Three.”
“’Ear, ’ear!” said Alf with a grin. “Bleedin’ well ’ear, ’ear—an’ more perishin’ power to his push.” They drained the mugs.
“How’s that?” said Rawley.
Alf smacked his lips, and pushed his mug forward. “Fill up, chum. It ain’t no good keepin’ that broken bottle. Another pint of this tack an’ I’ll push kebs over.”
Rawley glanced at the watch. “Right’o. Just time for another.”
Alf lighted a cigarette and they drank again. Rawley put down his empty mug and rose. “Time, gentlemen, please,” he said. He took his rifle and moved towards the recess. Alf followed. Rawley pushed forward the safety catch and thrust the barrel up the chimney. Then he pulled it down again and turned to Alf. “Is the chimney straight?” he asked.
Alf nodded.
“Sure? I mean, we don’t want to shoot into the ground.”
“There’s a bit of a slant,” said Alf. “But you can see daylight when you look up.”
Rawley examined the chimney. “I see,” he said. “It slopes this way a bit.” He went down on one knee, rested the butt of the rifle on the other, and held the barrel in the centre of the pipe. “Here goes,” he said. “Stand clear.”
The report was deafening in the confined space, and was followed by a little avalanche of earth down the chimney. Rawley shook the earth from the bolt and sent another round into the breech. “Bring that cigarette here,” he said. He held the cigarette under the chimney, but the smoke displayed no great tendency to rush up it. “Ah, well, can’t expect to do the trick first go off. We shall have to peg away at it. I’ll empty the magazine and then try it.”
He fired the other nine rounds and stood up. Alf held the cigarette underneath, but with no result.
“We’ve brought down some earth anyway,” said Rawley. “You have a go now, while I reload.”
He dragged out the box of S.A.A. and took out a handful of clips. The already vitiated air was now heavy with the reek of burnt cordite. There was no longer any need to hold a cigarette beneath the chimney. The fumes hung in wreathes that made breathing difficult. Alf was firing round after round up the chimney.
“Steady!” warned Rawley. “Make sure you’re not plugging into the side of the pipe higher up, or you will do more harm than good.”
Alf ejected the last case from the breech and drew his hand across his damp forehead. “It ain’t ’arf gettin’ stuffy in ’ere,” he said. “Do you think we’ll do it, chum?”
“Rather! You load up again while I have a go.” Rawley fired each round deliberately, pausing before each pressure of the trigger to ensure accuracy of aim. And he turned his eyes frequently to the fumes that clung lazily to the low roof of the recess. He thought he detected a slight tendency to float up the chimney. Alf stood ready with his rifle reloaded. Rawley put out his hand for it. “Let me carry on for a bit,” he said. He fired three more rounds deliberately, pausing after each to watch the behaviour of the fumes. After the third round the fumes slid round the edge of the chimney in a small continuous stream like an inverted water-fall. He fired several more rounds before his rifle and hands were deluged with a small avalanche of earth. Then he stood up. The fumes in the neighbourhood of the chimney were gravitating towards it, moving faster and with more decision as they neared it, till finally they whisked round the edge and up out of sight.
Rawley leaned his rifle against the wall and sat down rather wearily on his bunk. “All clear!” he said, and felt for his pipe.
Alf mopped his face with a dirty rag. “I don’t mind sayin’,” he confessed, “that put the wind up me proper.”
“Me, too,” agreed Rawley. “Anyway, it’s all right now.”
“Now we got to dig ourselves out.”
“Not now. Personally, I’m pretty nearly all in. The best thing we can do is to turn in for a bit; and then we’ll go at it like navvies when we wake up.”
Alf demurred. He did not like the feeling of being buried like a corpse even though there was now plenty of air. Why not start digging at once.
“What, for half an hour—and then be too tired to move for hours after?” objected Rawley. “No. Turn in and have a good sleep. We shall get through twice the amount of work in half the time when we are fresh. After all, that blessed landslide won’t run away.” And so they crawled into their bunks and were soon asleep.