THE YPRES TIMES
73
fragrance. The fragrance of an April morning way back in Englandalthough
not so very far as the crow flies, yet ever so far to those kilted figures moving to
and fro amidst the gleaming trunks.
In the half light, for night was closing in, an occasional eerie brilliance played
fitfully through the trees towards the east, while the staccato chatter of a machine
gun away in front, would occasionally break in on the tranquil dusk. Now silence
then the crack of a rifle, giving evidence of the increasing vigilance in the mud-
filled trenches beyond.
Suddenly from amidst the treesa voice, Fall in, the choir," and slowly
four figures appeared from a half concealed dug-out, carrying or dragging biscuit
tins. Arranging them round the caller, they awaited his signal to begin. Within
a few moments the wood was filled with swelling melodythe favourite songs of
rural England. The beautiful blending of the voices caused other figures to
gather round in a great ring, which grew in size each minute, judging by the
circle of glowing points which betrayed the inevitable cigarette; the smoke of
which mingled subtly with the scents of spring. No outside voice broke in.
Perhaps each and all realized the profanity of adding his voice to this harmonious
quintet; or was it that their hearts were too full of thoughts of those other days
before the war; which for many of them had gone for ever?
Faintly at first, then increasing in intensity, a low surging noise heralded the
approach of the nightly transport. The stream of ration limbers, stores,
ammunition, and last, but most cherished of allthe mails. It was now drawing
close, sounding for all the world like a ceaseless tide beating on a distant shore.
Soon it would be here. Louder and more distinct grew the roar, till now it was
possible to detect the sound of iron tyres on the cobbled road. Fall in, the
Ration Fatigue." Fall in, my party." Orders heard on every side broke up the
choir meeting, and figures crunched over the fascine-covered footway towards the
road at the edge of the wood. A scene now of bustle and animation. All that
made life worth living was nearing the cross-roads, and within a few minutes
those bulky loads would be speeded away from the limbers, to be greeted with
eager hands beside the now vacated biscuit tins.
A little fat man appeared from under a great bag. Mails up, X Company,"
he panted, trying to assume a matter-of-fact intonation. Quickly he was surrounded
by an expectant group. Cutting open the fastenings he rolled back the lips of the
bag, and producing a pocket flash-lamp from his tunic, at once began to call out
the names of the lucky ones. All too soon the pile was reduced to a few stray
letters, some of which had to be forwarded to those in hospital, and some that would
have to be returned as undelivered. Noo for parcels," cried the little fat man.
I don't suppose any of yez'll be wantin' any, though."
"Come on! Dish 'em out, Fatty," replied somebody.
Yes, look slippy," agreed another.
And the distribution recommenced.
No. 3884 Private Plenty. Parcel from home," yelled Fatty.
Ta," said Plenty, taking his packet.
A few more were handed out, then: No. 3884 Private G. A. Plenty. Here's
another of 'em." Plenty collected it very calmly, adding it to the other on top of a
dug-out. A few more monotonous calls, when againNo. 3-8-8 blinkin' 4.
Private George Augustus Plenty. I'm coming to sup wi' ye the nicht." Thanks,"
said George Augustus, taking his parcel with just a suspicion of a smile.
The prize-giving went on for a few moments, when someone broke in.
"Haven't you got any for me?" "Noo," replied Fatty, ye're just oot o' luck the
noo. Hello! What's this yen?" Holding a brown paper parcel well away from
him, he ejaculated, "Connie Onnie! Tin of it busted oot. Who the hell's it
