I nodded.  “What happens afterward to the man who stays back here?”

“Mentioned in despatches ... sometimes,” Tommy returned casually.

I thought over the matter.  Tommy whispered further.

“Oh, yer needn’t be a bit nervous.  There’s two of us lads about every forty or fifty yards.  This is the w’y.  ’Ere we are, ’ere the Boches are ... there the boys are”—­he flicked an expressive thumb backward.  “Those Boches thinks as ’ow they ’as to get to our trenches, but before they gets to our trenches, they ’as to pass us ... they ’as to pass US ... see?”

I saw.  “Say,” I touched him gently, “a while before I joined up, I did the hundred yards in eleven seconds flat ... those Boches may pass you to-night, but never, on your life, will they pass me.”

Tommy chuckled.  He had been through it all himself.  Every man has it the first time that he goes on any of these dangerous duties.  I can frankly say I disliked the listening-post duty that first time.  Nothing happened of course.  There was no killing, but it was nervy work.  Later, in common with other fellows, I was able to go on listening-post with the same nonchalance as my first coster friend.  It lies in whether one is used to the thing or not.  Nothing comes easy at first, especially in the trenches.  Later on, it is all in the day’s work.

When our relief came we crawled back to our trench and spent the night in our dugouts.  Next day we got a change of rations.  We had “Maconochie.”  “He” is by way of a stew.  Stew with a tin jacket.  It bears the nomenclature of its inventor and maker, although Maconochie’s is a firm.  This is an English ration and after bully beef for weeks, it is a pleasant enough change.

The weather was fine:  clear overhead, blue sky and just a hint of frost, though it was not very cold.  After dinner the first day in the trenches, I suddenly noticed an excitement among the English soldiers.  We became excited, too, and strained to see what was happening.

There, sheer ahead of us, darting, twisting, turning, was a monoplane right over the German trench.  It was a British plane, and taking inconceivably risky chances.  We could see the airman on the steering seat wave to us.  He seemed like a gigantic mosquito, bent on tormenting the Huns.  Their bullets spurted round him.  He spiraled and sank, sank and spiraled.  Nothing ever hit him.  The Boches got wildly hysterical in their shooting.  Every rifle pointed upward.  They forgot where they were; they forgot us; they fired rapidly, round after round.  And still the plane rose and fell, flitted higher and looped lower.  It was a magnificent display.  We could see the aviator wave more clearly now; his broad smile almost made us imagine we heard his exultant laugh.

“Who is it?  What is it?” We boys gasped out the questions breathlessly.

“’Ere he comes; watch ’im, mate; watch ’im.  ’E’s the Mad Major.  Look, look—­he’s looping!  Gawd in ’eaven, they’ve got ’im.  No, blimey, ’e’s blinkin’ luck itself.  ’E’s up again.”