May II, 1916 
LAND & WA T E R 
Before the Charge 
By Patrick MacGill 
13 
Patrick MacGill, whose first book. " CJiildrcn of tlie Dead 
End," caused him to leap into fame as a writer of the realist 
school, is in his twenty-sixth year. Born in Donegal of 
Irish peasants, hs started life at nine years of age as a 
potato digger in the North of Scotland. He then became a 
farm hand, labourer, tramp, drainer, and navvy in turn, 
and all these phases of his life are described with great 
power in his autobiography . 
In his spare time Patrick MacGill wrote poems and 
studied to such effect that he was able to translate from the 
French and Ge/man. A little paper-covered book (a collector 
offered a guinea for a copy a short time ago) entitled " Songs 
of a Navvy," and published by himself, luas his first 
venture : an article, scribbled in pencil on a piece of dirty 
paper in the navvy shack, found its way to tlie editor of the 
London "Daily Kx press," who immediately sent for the young 
writer and gave him a post on the editorial staff. At the 
beginning of September, 1914, /;:; enlisted as a private in 
the London Irish Ki/'Ies, and has been at Givenchy, Guinchy, 
Festubert, Grenay, and many other places, but was finally 
wounded at Loos in September last. His latest book, " The 
Red Horizon," was -written entirely in the trenches. 
I 
PATKICK MACGILL 
POKED my head 
through the upper 
window of our billet 
. and looked down 
the street. An ominous 
calm brooded over the 
village, the trees which 
lined the streets seemed 
immovable in the dark- 
ness, with lone shadows 
clinging to their trunks. 
On my right, across a 
little rise, was the firing 
line. In the near distance 
was the village of Bully- 
Grenay, roofless and 
tenantless, and further 
off was the Philosophe 
hamlet with its dark blue 
slag-head bulking large 
.against the horizon. 
Souchez in the hills was 
as usual active ; a heavy artillery engagement was in 
progress. White and lurid splashes of flame dabbed 
the sky, the smoke rising from the ground paled 
in the higher air ; but the breeze blowing away from me 
carried the tumult and thunder far from my ears. I 
looked on a conflict without a sound ; a furious fight seen 
but unheard. 
A coal-heap near the village stood colos'sal and threaten- 
ing ; an engine shunted a long row of waggons along the 
railway line which fringed Les Brcbis. In a pit by the 
mine a big gun began to speak loudly and the echo of its 
voice palpitated through the room and dislodged a tile 
from the roof. . . . My mind was suddenly per- 
meated by a feeling of proximity to the enemy. 
He whom we were to attack at dawn seem.ed to be very 
close to me. I could almost feel his presence in the room. 
At dawn I might deprive him of life and he might de- 
prive me of mine. 
Two beings give life to a man, but one can deprive 
him of it. Which is the greater mystery ? Birth or 
death ? They who are responsible for the first may take 
pleasure, but who can glory in the second ? To kill a 
man . . . to feel for ever after the deed that you have 
deprived a fellow being of life ! . . . 
" We're beginning to strafe again," said Dudley Pryor, 
coming to my side as a second reverberation shook the 
house. " It doesn't matter. I've got a bottle of 
champagne and a box of cigars." 
" I've got a bottle as well," I said. 
" There'll be a hell of a do to-morrow," said Pryor. 
" I suppose there will," I replied. " The officer said 
that our job will be ciuite an easy one." 
" H'm," said Pryor. 
I looked' down ;it tlic street ;ind T snw Hill Te;ike. 
" There's Bill down there," I remarked.' I! He's 
smging a song. Listen." 
I like your smile, 
I like your style, 
I like your soft blue dreamy eyes. 
" There's passion in that voice," I said. " Has he 
fallen in love again ? 
A cork went plunk ! from a bottle behind me, and 
Pryor, from the shadows of the room behind me, answered : 
" Oh, yes ! he's in love again ; the girl next door is his 
fancy now." 
" Oh, so it seems," I said. " She's out at the pump 
now, and Bill is edging up to her as quietly as if he was 
going to loot a chicTcen off its perch." 
Bill is a boy for the girls ; he finds a fresh love at every 
billet. His new flame was a squat stump of a Millet 
girl in short petticoats and stout sabots. Her eyes were 
a deep black, her teeth very white. She was a com- 
fortable, good-natured girl, " a big 'andful of love," 
as he says to himself, but she was not very good looking. 
Bill sidled up to her side and fixed an earnest gaze on 
the water falling from the pump ; then he nudged the 
girl in the hip with a playful hand and ran his fingers over 
the back of her neck. 
" AUez vous en ! " she cried, but otherwise made no 
attempt to resist Bill's advances. 
" Allez voos ong yerself ! " said Bill, and burst into 
song again. 
She's the pretty little girl from Nowhere, 
Nowhere at all. 
She's the: 
He was unable to resist the temptation any longer and 
he clasped the girl round the waist and planted a kiss on 
her cheek. The maiden did not relish this familiarity. 
Stooping down, she placed her hand in the pail, raised a 
handful of water, and flung it in Bill's face. The Cockney 
retired crestfallen, spluttering, and a few minutes after- 
w-ards he entered the room. 
" Yes, I think that there are no women on earth to 
equal them," said Pryor to me, deep in a prearranged 
conversation. " They have a grace of their own and a 
coyness which I admire. I don't think that any womefi 
are like the women of France." 
" 'Oo ? " asked Bill Teake, sitting down on the floor. 
" Pat and I are talking about the Frtn"h girls," said 
Pryor. 
" They're spleiidid." 
" H'm ! " grunted Bill, in a colourless voice. 
" Not much humbug about them." I remarked. 
" I prefer English girls," said Bill. " They can make 
a joke and take one. As for the French girls, ugh ! " 
" But they're not all ahkc," I said. " Some may 
resent advances in the street and show temper when they're 
kissed over a pimip — " 
" The water from the Les Brebis pumps is very cold," 
said Pryor. We could not see Bill's face in the darkness, 
but we could almost feel our companion squirm. 
" 'Ave yer got some champagne, Pryor ? " he asked, 
with studied indifference. " My froat's like sand-paper." 
" Plenty of champagne, matey," said Pryor in a re- 
pentant voice. " We're all going to get drunk to-night. 
Are you ? " 
'• 'Course I am !" said Bill. " It's very comfy to 'ave 
a drop of champagne." 
" More comfy than a kiss even," said Pryor. 
As he spoke the door was shoved inwards and our 
Corporal entered. For a moment he stood there without 
speaking, his long, lank form darkly outlined against the 
half-light. 
" Well, Corporal ? " said Pryor interrogatively. 
" Why don't you light a candle ? " asked the Corporal, 
" I thought that we were going to get one another's 
addresses." 
" So we were," I said, as if just remembering a decision 
arrived at a few hours previously. But I had it in my 
mind all the time. 
