The Sentry.
2o6
THE YPRES TIMES
A True Story.
WAS a tiny advanced trench in the British line at Kemmel. It held a
platoon of infantry. Directly in front, and about a hundred yards away,
stood a Small wood called the Petit Bois; and which was held by a
particularly vigilant body of Germans.
At no time during the night did the rifle fire ceaseeach side firing at the
other's flashes. The German flares continually lit up an eerie No Man's Land,
throwing into black relief the quiet huddled bodies of a number of French troops
killed in a previous battle.
One ruined wall was all that was left of the farmhouse situated twenty yards
behind the little trench. Every now and then a bullet would strike the brickwork
with a vicious crack and a spray of sparks.
Intensely alert, with staring eyes and straining ears, the sentry tried to pene
trate the intense blackness following the dazzling light of a flare. Surely that
dark object had moved! Or was it just the lengthening shadow as the flare
descended? Now, everything was blackheavily, solidly black. Listening
intently, and marking the spot, the tingling sentry watched for the next flare. He
had not long to wait. With a crack, a reddish spark soared gracefully upwards
like a rocket. Reaching the climax of its arch, it burst into a blinding, sizzling ball
of light. YesThe object had moved. Surely it was more to the right now,
although quite still. The flare flickered, then died out. Simultaneously the sentry
firedand waited for a sign that his shot had gone home. Silence, broken only by
the ragged firing to the right and left. Perhaps, after all, he had been mistaken.
How frequently he had been told that he would believe every tree stump,
every dark shadow, to be a lurking enemy.
Oblivious now to the danger of exposing himself too much, he leaned well
over the parapet. Bullets zipped deafeningly close. No; he must make absolutely
sure before giving the alarm. How foolish he would look if it only turned out to
be one of the dead Frenchmen after all. Further flares rose and fell. The object
was still there. Perhaps he had hit it; yet he would make sure. As the next flare
spluttered downward he took careful aim, and fired. No movement did he observe
as the flare flickered out. With a feeling of intense relief he took up his previous
stance in the trench; just watching the top of the parapet, which gave a faint sky
line owing to more distant flares, although now and again breaking into sharp
relief as one dropped close to. Making a quick scrutiny by the light of these nearer
lights, he felt satisfied that whatever the object might have been, it was quite
stationary now. He even doubted whether it had really changed position after all.
Anyhow, the morning light would solve all. He grew tired of ever straining
across the parapet, and, pulling out his luminous watch, he was gratified to see that
his vigil was nearly over. In a few minutes he would wake up the heavily breathing
figure lying amidst the turnips behind him; and in his turn snuggle under his
greatcoat and snatch one hour of sleep. Suddenly he straightened upevery nerve
in his body pricking. Without doubt'a head had momentarily shown itself over
the parapet. His eyes were riveted to the spot, and his heart thumped as he
clutched his rifle and held it ready—waiting. Should he fire or should he thrust
with his bayonet? Should he call out to the next sentry and rouse the others?
Silent and tense, he stood rooted to the spot. Without further warning a black-
shape bounded on to the top of the parapet. The sentry jerked his rifle forward,
finger on trigger, when a plaintive Me-ow arrested the shot. The farm was
still home to pussy.
F.J.
