out here who doesn't worry much about his dinner.
We nodded, a trifle mystified; so, cautioning us not to raise our voices, he led us into a protruding section of the trench and beckoned a corporal who was clumsily sewing a rent in his uniform. We waited in front of a dirty brown canvas curtain which veiled a portion of the face of the parapet perhaps six feet wide and three high.
“It's a sniper's post," Williams whispered. The corporal knew what we wanted. Without words he slowly lifted the dirty canvas, disclosing a nest in the parapet cased with steel plates.
A stout young soldier crouched in the heat and the darkness of that place. He swung around as if grateful for the light and the air. His face was wetter than the cook's, but he turned back, replacing his eye at a small loop-hole in the front wall.
"Wait a minute, Owen," the corporal muttered.
The round, young face studied us again.
“What's your bag this week?" the corporal went on
The sniper's lips opened, showing teeth. The grin coloured his tone.
"My bag? Ten periscopes and five Huns."
Death is such an impersonal thing nowadays.
