20
"The pass-word is Thistle, pass it on."
"The pass-word is Thistle, pass it on." This sentence is repeated until it fades
out of hearing.
"1 wouldn't like to be the East Yorks tonight."
"No yaw right. I wish they'd 'urry up any 'ow."
Hoarsely a young officer says, "Less noise you fellows. Stop shouting and
banging about
"Windy," murmurs a corporal.
All is still. We are strained with anxiety lest a sudden bombardment should
endanger our exit. We wonder fearfully if the silence is evilly ominous. We speak
in whispers.
"Halt! Who goes there?" The silence suddenly seems to be, as it were, alert
and waiting.
RETURNED FROM LEAVE, HALTING ON THEIR WAY TO REJOIN THEIR BATTALION
IN THE LINE.
"FriendsThistle."
"Pass friends."
Two short silhouettes whose rifle muzzles stick up from their shoulders jump
into our trench, onto the firestep, by the sentry.
"Who are theyl" whispers a young fellow new to the Company.
"Battalion runners. What cheer, 'Arry."
The runner so addressed, a Durham miner, peers into the face of the man who
hails him whisperingly, "We's that? W'y yer beggar o' Hell, it's ard Bwoonie (old
Brownie). "War ye gannin on kidder?" (How are you going on? "As thah
jist coom oot agen mun?"
