there was something awfully sad about some of the soldiers’ letters. They didn’t mean to make them sad, which gave their efforts to be manly and cheerful a melancholy tinge. But it had to be faced. God help them, they were funny enough efforts sometimes. Some men wrote a letter as formal as a bishop, some tried to write the inside of their heads, like that young Willie Dunne. It was a curiosity.
The yellow cloud was noticed first by Christy Moran because he was standing on the fire-step with his less than handy mirror arrangement, looking out across the quiet battlefield. That little breeze had freshened and it blew now against the ratty hair that dropped out of Christy Moran’s hat here and there. So the breeze was more of a wind and was blowing full on against Christy’s hat and mirror, but it was nothing remarkable.
What was remarkable was the strange yellow-tinged cloud that had just appeared from nowhere like a sea fog. But not like a fog really; he knew what a flaming fog looked like, for God’s sake, being born and bred near the sea in fucking Kingstown. He watched for a few seconds in his mirror, straining to see and straining to understand. It was about four o‘clock, and all as peaceful as anything. Not even the guns were firing now. The caterpillars foamed on the yellow flowers.
And the grass died in the path of the cloud. That was only Christy Moran’s impression maybe; he hoiked down the mirror a moment and wiped it clean with his cleanish sleeve. Back up it went. The cloud didn’t look too deep but it was as wide as the eye could see. Christy Moran was absolutely certain now he could see figures moving in the yellow smoke. It must be some sort of way of hiding the advancing men, he was thinking, some new-fashioned piece of warfare.
‘Would you ever fetch out the captain,’ he said to O‘Hara. ’All right, boys, stand now in readiness. Get those rifles up here. Machine-gunners, start firing there into that bloody cloud.’
So the gun detail leaped to their machine-gun, Joe McNulty and Joe Kielty the loaders as ever, Mayo men and cousins too, that joined up somewhere against the wishes of their fathers they had confessed, and the bullets started clattering away from them, the water-man keeping the gun well cooled, the shooter firm on his knees and expecting all the while to have the top of his noggin shot off.
But this was a very curious advance. Captain Pasley came out and stood contemplatively by Christy Moran, who had abandoned his mirror and was standing up on the fire-step, such was his puzzlement.
‘What’s going on, Sergeant-Major?’ said Captain Pasley.
‘I couldn’t tell you, for the life of me,’ said Christy Moran. ‘There’s just this big fucking cloud about fifty yards off, drifting along in the wind. It doesn’t look like fog.’
‘It might be smoke from fires the Boche are burning.’
‘Might be.’
‘You can see them coming on?’
‘I thought I could, sir. But there doesn’t seem to be anyone. No shouts, no cries. It’s as quiet as a nursery, sir, and all the babies asleep.’
‘Very good, Sergeant-Major. Cease firing, men.’
The Algerians to the right were a little ahead of them, as the trench twisted away there in a slight salient. All the Irish were on the fire-step now, all along the length of the trench, some fifteen hundred men showing their faces to this unknown freak of weather, or whatever it might be. The commanding officer was rung up and told what was afoot, but there wasn’t any coherent order he could think to give, except to be cautious and shoot anything that came creeping.
There had been no warning barrage and the dense smoke didn’t look too threatening. It was beautiful in a way, the yellow seemed to boil about, and sink into whatever craters it was offered, and then rise again with the march of the main body of smoke. There were still birds singing behind them, but whatever birds had been singing in front of them were silent now.
The yellow cloud was noticed first by Christy Moran because he was standing on the fire-step with his less than handy mirror arrangement, looking out across the quiet battlefield. That little breeze had freshened and it blew now against the ratty hair that dropped out of Christy Moran’s hat here and there. So the breeze was more of a wind and was blowing full on against Christy’s hat and mirror, but it was nothing remarkable.
What was remarkable was the strange yellow-tinged cloud that had just appeared from nowhere like a sea fog. But not like a fog really; he knew what a flaming fog looked like, for God’s sake, being born and bred near the sea in fucking Kingstown. He watched for a few seconds in his mirror, straining to see and straining to understand. It was about four o‘clock, and all as peaceful as anything. Not even the guns were firing now. The caterpillars foamed on the yellow flowers.
And the grass died in the path of the cloud. That was only Christy Moran’s impression maybe; he hoiked down the mirror a moment and wiped it clean with his cleanish sleeve. Back up it went. The cloud didn’t look too deep but it was as wide as the eye could see. Christy Moran was absolutely certain now he could see figures moving in the yellow smoke. It must be some sort of way of hiding the advancing men, he was thinking, some new-fashioned piece of warfare.
‘Would you ever fetch out the captain,’ he said to O‘Hara. ’All right, boys, stand now in readiness. Get those rifles up here. Machine-gunners, start firing there into that bloody cloud.’
So the gun detail leaped to their machine-gun, Joe McNulty and Joe Kielty the loaders as ever, Mayo men and cousins too, that joined up somewhere against the wishes of their fathers they had confessed, and the bullets started clattering away from them, the water-man keeping the gun well cooled, the shooter firm on his knees and expecting all the while to have the top of his noggin shot off.
But this was a very curious advance. Captain Pasley came out and stood contemplatively by Christy Moran, who had abandoned his mirror and was standing up on the fire-step, such was his puzzlement.
‘What’s going on, Sergeant-Major?’ said Captain Pasley.
‘I couldn’t tell you, for the life of me,’ said Christy Moran. ‘There’s just this big fucking cloud about fifty yards off, drifting along in the wind. It doesn’t look like fog.’
‘It might be smoke from fires the Boche are burning.’
‘Might be.’
‘You can see them coming on?’
‘I thought I could, sir. But there doesn’t seem to be anyone. No shouts, no cries. It’s as quiet as a nursery, sir, and all the babies asleep.’
‘Very good, Sergeant-Major. Cease firing, men.’
The Algerians to the right were a little ahead of them, as the trench twisted away there in a slight salient. All the Irish were on the fire-step now, all along the length of the trench, some fifteen hundred men showing their faces to this unknown freak of weather, or whatever it might be. The commanding officer was rung up and told what was afoot, but there wasn’t any coherent order he could think to give, except to be cautious and shoot anything that came creeping.
There had been no warning barrage and the dense smoke didn’t look too threatening. It was beautiful in a way, the yellow seemed to boil about, and sink into whatever craters it was offered, and then rise again with the march of the main body of smoke. There were still birds singing behind them, but whatever birds had been singing in front of them were silent now.
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