ength, after a winding, zigzag
journey, we arrived at our trench where we met the Gloucesters.

There isn't one of us who hasn't a warm spot in his heart for the
Gloucesters: they welcomed us so heartily and initiated us into all the
mysteries of trench etiquette and trench tradition. We were, at best, but
amateur Tommies. In them I recognized the lineal descendants of the line
Atkins; men whose grandfathers had fought in the Crimea, and whose
fathers in Indian mutinies. They were the fighting sons of fighting
sires, and they taught us more of life in the trenches, in twenty-four
hours, than we had learned during nine months of training in England. An
infantryman of my company has a very kindly feeling toward one of them
who probably saved his life before we had been in the trenches five
minutes. Our first question was, of course, "How far is it to the German
lines?" and in his eagerness to see, my fellow Tommy jumped up on the
firing-bench for a look, with a lighted cigarette in his mouth. He was
pulled down into the trench just as a rifle cracked and a bullet went
_zing-g-g_ from the parapet precisely where he had been standing. Then
the Gloucester gave him a friendly little lecture which none of us
afterward forgot.

"Now, look 'ere, son! Never get up for a squint at Fritz with a fag on!
'E's got every sandbag along this parapet numbered, same as we've got
'is. 'Is snipers is a-layin' fer us same as ours is a-layin' fer 'im."
Then, turning to the rest of us, "Now, we ain't arskin' to 'ave no burial
parties. But if any of you blokes wants to be the stiff, stand up w'ere
this guy lit the gas."

There weren't any takers, and a moment later another bullet struck a
sandbag in the same spot.

"See? 'E spotted you. 'E'll keep a-pottin' away at that place for an
hour, 'opin' to catch you lookin' over again. Less see if we can find
'im. Give us that biscuit tin, 'Enery."

Then we learned the biscuit-tin-finder trick for locating snipers. It's
only approximate, of course, but it gives a pretty good hint at the
direction from which the shots come. It doesn't work in the daytime, for
a sniper is too clever to fire at it. But a biscuit tin, set on the
parapet at night in a badly sniped position, is almost certain to be hit.
The angle from which the shots come is shown by the jagged edges of tin
around the bullet holes. Then, as the Gloucester said, "Give 'im a nice
little April shower out o' yer machine gun in that direction