“Why in thunder can’t you keep your filthy tea-kettle in its own place, instead of bringing it here to draw fire?” inquired Mr. Cockerell, not altogether unreasonably, as Ayling and his satellites passed along the trench bearing the offending weapon, with water-jacket aboil, back to its official residence.

“It is all for your good, my little man,” explained Ayling loftily.  “It would never do to give away one’s real gun positions.  If we did, the Bosches would sit tight and say nothing at the time, but just make a note of the occurrence.  Then, one fine morning, when they really meant business, they would begin by droping a Black Maria on top of each emplacement; and where would you and your platoon be then, with an attack coming on and us out of action?  So long!”

But the most unpopular man in the trenches is undoubtedly the Trench Mortar Officer.  His apparatus consists of what looks like a section of rain-pipe, standing on legs.  Upon its upturned muzzle is poised a bomb, having the appearance of a plum-pudding on a stick.  This he discharges over the parapet into the German trenches, where it causes a comforting explosion.  He then walks rapidly away.

For obvious reasons, it is not advisable to fire a trench-mortar too often—­at any rate from the same place.  But the whole weight of public opinion in our trench is directed against it being fired from anywhere at all.  Behold the Trench Mortar Officer and his gang of pariahs creeping stealthily along in the lee of the parados, just as dawn breaks, in the section of trench occupied by No. 10 Platoon.  For the moment they are unheeded, for the platoon are “standing-to,” and the men are lined along the firing-step, with their backs to the conspirators.

On reaching a suitable spot, the mortar party proceed to erect their apparatus with as little ostentation as possible.  But they are soon discovered.  The platoon subaltern hurries up.

“Awfully sorry, old man,” he says breathlessly, “but the C.O. gave particular orders that this part of the trench was on no account to be used for trench-mortar fire.  You see, we are only about seventy yards from the Bosche trenches here—­”

“I know,” explains the T.M.O.; “that is why I came.”

“But it is most important,” continues the platoon commander, still quoting glibly from an entirely imaginary mandate of the C.O., “that no retaliatory shell fire should be attracted here.  Most serious for the whole Brigade, if this bit of parapet got pushed over.  Now, there’s a topping place about ten traverses away.  You can lob them over from there beautifully.  Come along.”

And with fair words and honeyed phrases he elbows the dispirited band to a position—­for his platoon—­of comparative inoffensiveness.

The Trench Mortar Officer drifts on, and presently, with the uneasy assurance of the proprietor of a punch-and-judy show who has inadvertently strayed into Park Lane, attempts once more to give his unpopular entertainment.  This time his shrift is even shorter, for he encounters Major Kemp—­never at his sunniest in the small hours of the morning.