Chapter C: D Turkish trench, without

E F Ditch

G British barricade.

H Turkish barricade.]

This should give you an idea of the English and Turkish lines at a point where they are about eighty yards apart. Without going into details you will see the English trench is of the superior pattern, as it has traverses. I had to work in that technical term to show I know all about it; I know another, "the berm," but I am not too sure about what that is, and also I don't suppose I could draw a "berm" if I saw one. Anyway, I know it's quite a good term connected with trenches, as I heard a G.O.C. fairly strafe a subaltern, the other day, because he hadn't got a "berm." Well, to refer to the map, you will observe that there is an old ditch running between the two lines of trenches, and both sides have advanced a certain distance along this ditch and have built barricades about ten yards apart. Every day it is part of my job to take a constitutional along our trenches, and after discussing the European situation and the latest Budget with the various battalion commanders to ask them whether there is any particularly obnoxious part of the opposition line they would like me to salute with my battery. Usually they say, "No, there's nothing in particular, but let's have a shoot all the same; for example, there's a dog that barks abominably every night opposite L 57. Couldn't you abolish him?" Incidentally we no longer give our trenches names, such as Piccadilly, Rotten Row, but mere letters and numbers; the reason being that one of the staff was picked up in a fainting condition, having strolled down Park Lane and then found himself, to his horror, in Peckham High Street. The shock--his own home being in Baling Broadway--had proved too much for his constitution. However, to refer back to the map once more, our barricade across the ditch is a most convenient spot for observing artillery fire and as such is frequently used by me. Unfortunately my view was always hasty and badly interrupted by the attentions of a Turkish sniper behind their barricade. This man's name was Ibrahim, and he was a Constantinople cab-driver, married, with two children, both boys. You may be surprised that we know so much about the enemy, but we live in such close proximity that opposite the Lancashire Fusiliers a Turk named Mahomet, who lives at No. 3, Golden Horn Terrace, told the reporter of _The Worpington Headlight_ that for three years he had been suffering from pains in the back--but that's another story. Incidentally Mahomet at present inhabits a sniper's post surrounded by a perfect thicket of barbed-wire, and I had a bright scheme for its removal. I got hold of a trench catapult, an ingenious contrivance of elastic that hurls a bomb some hundreds of yards, and placed in it a harpoon attached to a long coil of rope. The idea was that on release of the catapult the harpoon would be hurled in the air, the rope would neatly pay out, and then, as soon as the harpoon had grappled Mahomet, all we would have to do would be to haul on the rope and over would come the whole bag of tricks. Unfortunately something went wrong, and the rope, instead of neatly uncoiling, flailed round the trench like a young anaconda, and, catching a harmless spectator by the leg, hurled him twenty feet in the air. Immediately the opposition lines resounded like a rifle-booth at a country fair. However our spectator descended unpunctured, and the only damage done was to our vanity, when Mahomet threw over a message attached to a stone to ask whether we would repeat the performance as he and a pal had a bet on as to who was the best shot and wanted a human aeroplane to judge.

But we have got a long way from Ibrahim. Ibrahim possessed the headpiece I am sending you. I could not think of a method for obtaining it, as his vigilance was deadly. However a bright thought struck me, and I assiduously saved up my rum ration for a month. Then one bitter cold night I tossed over the accumulation in a bottle wrapped up in an old sock. Presently there resounded in the still air a pleasant bubbling sound indicative of liquid being poured out of a glass receptacle, then a deep sigh, followed by a profound silence. Inch by inch I crawled over our barricade and slowly wormed my way along the ditch. At last I reached the Turkish barricade and cautiously slid my hand over the top until my fingers encountered Ibrahim's toque. Then I gave a gentle tug. Horror! he had the flap down under his chin. Unmanned for a moment I recovered, and I slowly slid my fingers down his hirsute neck and with a gentle titillation slid the flap clear. Ibrahim merely stirred in his sleep and resumed his slumbers. Triumphantly hugging the trophy to my bosom I crawled back to our barricade.

The saddest part of the tale is yet to come. I had promised to procure you a trophy unstained by association with human slaughter, but when the day dawned there lay poor Ibrahim stiff and stark behind his barricade, killed by a cold in his head.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Message Boy Wanted for Butchery."

_Brechin Advertiser._

A lot of people are after that boy.

* * * * *

"Taxi driver who laid down Fare at Royal Hotel at 2.45 p.m. on
Christmas Day, would oblige by returning Gent's Umbrella to
Hotel."

_Aberdeen Journal._

We gather that it had been a wet morning.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HUNTIN' WEATHER.

There's a dog-fox down in Lannigan's spinney
(And Lannigan's wife has hens to mourn);
The hunters stamp in their stalls an' whinny,
Soft with leisure an' fat with corn.

The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty,
Sleek they are with their coats aglow,
Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty
And the saddles sit in a dusty row.

Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday
With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field
(Like the ghostly hunt of a dead an'-done day),
They--an' some lassies that giggled an' squealed.

The houn's they rioted like the devil
(They ran a hare an' they killed a goose);
I cursed Caubeen, but he looked me level:
"The boys are away--so what's the use?"

The mists lie clingin' on bog an' heather,
Haws hang red on the silver thorn;
It's huntin' weather, ay, huntin' weather,
But trumpets an' bugles have beat the horn!

* * * * *

A Debt of Honour.

Mr. Punch ventures to plead on behalf of the nine hundred men of the Royal Naval Division who were taken prisoners by the enemy in the retirement from Antwerp. Less fortunate than those of the same Division who were interned in Holland (for want of official information most people imagine that all the missing were so interned), they lack the necessities of life. Parcels of food are sent to them, fortnightly to each man, as well as clothing and tobacco; and it is known that they receive all that is sent. Mr. Punch begs his readers to help the fund from which these simple comforts are provided, and to address their gifts to Lady GWENDOLEN GUINNESS, at 11, St. James's Square, S.W.

* * * * *

From a report of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S speech:--

"The works of Ireland have been extremely helpful, and I am glad
to acknowledge that I have been extremely helpful."

_Manchester Guardian._

On this occasion the MINISTER OF MUNITIONS appears to have allowed himself the privilege of "thinking aloud."

* * * * *

"_The Daily Mail_ will not be published to-morrow, and for that
reason we seize the occasion to-day of bidding our readers a
merry Christmas,"--_Daily Mail of December 24th._

And a very good reason too.

* * * * *

Seasonable.

"The Canadian Government has granted to Canadian troops oversea
and in training at home a Christmas allowance of one chilling."

_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

"He much regretted that it was not possible to-day to
communicate the results of the Derby Report in any detail, or,
indeed, at all. The task had been one of stupendous bagnitude."

_Evening Standard._

Yes, but how big was the bag?

* * * * *

Two descriptions of the new Chief of the Imperial General Staff:--

"Of Scottish descent, and familiarly known to the Army as
'Jock,' he is one of the most remarkable soldiers of the time."

_Glasgow Evening Times._

"That he is known throughout the whole Army simply as 'Wullie'
is a sure token that the private soldier has taken him to his
heart."

_Glasgow Evening Citizen._

Won't the Germans be puzzled?

* * * * *

"Eddie Harvey (Fleetwood) and Ike Whitehouse (Barrow) went
through 15 rounds contest for £5 a side and a nurse, and Harvey
won on points."--_The People._

The stakes, we presume, were divided.

* * * * *

"A kid was born with monkey face and human skull at Saidapet on
the 13th instant."

_New India._

This is headed "A Curious Phenomenon." But is it? Some of our neighbours' kids are just like that.

* * * * *

* * * * *

LONDON AS USUAL.

("_Kelly's London Directory_" for 1916, a contemporary remarks, is very much the same as the volume for 1915.)

Where, where are the signs of the raider
Who swam to our ken like a kite,
Who swore he had played the invader
And knocked us to bits in the night;
Who pounded these parts into jelly
From Mile End, he said, to the Mall?
For the man who should know (J. J. KELLY)
Can't spot 'em at all.

You may turn up the street that is Vigo
Or alight on the Lane that is Mark;
You may let your incredulous eye go
O'er each Crescent and Corner and Park;
You may hunt through the humblest of alleys
Or the giddiest haunts of the town,
And Kelly's, who're "safe" as the Palace,
Have got 'em all down.

So I sing to those equals in wonder,
Of BRADSHAW (the expert on trains),
Who have torn the Hun's fiction asunder--
That our City's a mass of remains;
Here's our proof that we're plainly not undone,
That, although every night she lies hid,
Our stolid undaunted old London
Still stands where she did.

* * * * *

* * * * *

STUDIES IN FRUSTRATION.