THE TRENCH

A young man was shaving.  His feet rested upon a broad plank embedded in mud, and the tiny glass in which he saw himself hung upon a wall of raw, reeking earth.  A sky, somber and leaden, arched above him, and now and then flakes of snow fell in the sodden trench, but John Scott went on placidly with his task.

The face that looked back at him had been changed greatly in the last six months.  The smoothness of early youth was gone—­for the time—­and serious lines showed about the mouth and eyes.  His cheeks were thinner and there was a slight sinking at the temples, telling of great privations, and of dangers endured.  But the features were much stronger.  The six months had been in effect six years.  The boy of Dresden had become the man of the trenches.

He finished, rubbed his hand over his face to satisfy himself that the last trace of young beard and mustache was gone, put away his shaving materials in a little niche that he had dug with his own hands in the wall of the trench, and turned to the Englishman.

“Am I all right, Carstairs?” he asked.

“You do very well.  There’s mud on your boots, but I suppose you can’t help it.  The melting snow in our trench makes soggy footing in spite of all we can do.  But you’re trim, Scott.  That new gray uniform with the blue threads running through it becomes you.  All the Strangers are thankful for the change.  It’s a great improvement over those long blue coats and baggy red trousers.”

“But we don’t have any chance to show ’em,” said Wharton, who sat upon a small stool, reading a novel.  “Did I ever think that war would come to this?  Buried while yet alive!  A few feet of cold and muddy trench in which to pass one’s life!  This is an English story I’m reading.  The lovely Lady Ermentrude and the gallant Sir Harold are walking in the garden among the roses, and he’s about to ask her the great question.  There are roses, roses, and the deep green grass and greener oaks everywhere, with the soft English shadows coming and going over them.  The birds are singing in the boughs.  I suppose they’re nightingales, but do nightingales sing in the daytime?  And when I shut my book I see only walls of raw, red earth, and a floor, likewise of earth, but stickier and more hideous.  Even the narrow strip of sky above our heads is the color of lead, and has nothing soft about it.”

“If you’ll stand up straight,” said John, “maybe you’ll see the rural landscape for which you’re evidently longing.”

“And catch a German bullet between the eyes!  Not for me.  While I was taking a trip down to the end of our line this morning I raised my head by chance above the edge of the trench, and quick as a wink a sharpshooter cut off one of my precious brown locks.  I could have my hair trimmed that way if I were patient and careful enough.  Ah, here comes a messenger!”