of trench experience in his responsibility for the
command of a company of men.

It happened as we crawled back into the trench, that a fury of shots
broke out from a point along the line two or three hundred yards
away; sharp, vicious shots on the still night air, stabbing, merciless
death in their sound. Oh, yes, there was war in France; unrelenting,
shrewd, tireless war. A touch of suspicion anywhere and the hornets
swarmed.

It was two a.m. From the dug-outs came unmistakable sounds of
slumber. Men off duty were not kept awake by cold and moisture in
summer. They had fashioned for themselves comfortable dormitories
in the hard earth walls. A cot in an officer's bedchamber was
indicated as mine. The walls had been hung with cuts from illustrated
papers and bagging spread on the floor to make it "home-like." He lay
down on the floor because he was nearer the door in case he had to
respond to an alarm; besides, he said I would soon appreciate that I
was not the object of favouritism. So I did. It was a trench-made cot,
fashioned by some private of engineers, I fancy, who had Germans
rather than the American cousin in mind.

"The wall side of the rib that runs down the middle is the comfortable
side, I have found," said my host. "It may not appear so at first, but
you will find it works out that way."

Nevertheless, I slept, my last recollection that of sniping shots, to be
awakened with the first streaks of day by the sound of a fusillade--the
"morning hate" or the "morning strafe" as it is called. After the vigil of
darkness it breaks the monotony to salute the dawn with a burst of
rifle-shots. Eyes strained through the mist over the wheatfield
watching for some one of the enemy who may be exposing himself,
unconscious that it is light enough for him to be visible. Objects which
are not men but look as if they might be in the hazy distance, called
for attention on the chance. For ten minutes, perhaps, the serenade
lasted, and then things settled down to the normal. The men were
yawning and stirring from their dug-outs. After the muster they would
take the places of those who had been "on the bridge" through the
night.

"It's a case of how little water you can wash with, isn't it?" I said to
the cook, who appreciated my thoughtfulness when I made shift
with a dipperful, as I had done on desert journeys. We were in a trench
that was inundated with water in winter, and not more than two miles
from a town whic