as to be almost
impassable. The opposing lines hugged the tops of two small ridges.

Fifty yards in front was our wire barely discernible in the fog. The
Major interrupted five wordless reveries by expressing, with what almost
seemed regretfulness, the fact that in all his fighting experience he
had never seen it "so damn quiet." His observation passed without a
remark from us.

The Major appeared to be itching for action and he got into official
swing a hundred yards farther on, where a turn in the trench revealed to
us the muffled figures of two young Americans, comfortably seated on
grenade boxes on the firing step.

From their easy positions they could look over the top and watch all
approaches without rising. Each one had a blanket wrapped about his legs
and feet. They looked the picture of ease. Without moving, one, with his
rifle across his lap, challenged the Major, advanced him, and received
the countersign. We followed the Major in time to hear his first
remark:

"Didn't they get the rocking chairs out here yet?" he said with the
provoked air that customarily accompanies any condemnation of the
quartermaster department.

"No, sir," replied the seated sentry. "They didn't get here. The men we
relieved said that they never got anything out here."

"Nor the footstools?" the Major continued, this time with an
unmistakable tone.

The man didn't answer.

"Do you two think you are taking moon baths on the Riviera?" the Major
asked sternly. "You are less than two hundred yards from the Germans.
You are all wrapped up like Egyptian mummies. Somebody could lean over
the top and snake off your head with a trench knife before you could get
your feet loose. Take those blankets off your feet and stand up."

The men arose with alacrity, shedding the blankets and removing the
grenade box chairs. The Major continued:

"You know you are not sitting in a club window in Fifth Avenue and
watching the girls go by. You're not looking for chickens out there.
There's a hawk over there and sometimes he carries off precious little
lambs. Now, the next time anybody steps around the corner of that
trench, you be on your feet with your bayonet and gun ready to mix
things."

The lambs saluted as the Major moved off with a train of followers who,
by this time, were beginning to feel that these trenches held other
lambs, only they carried notebooks instead of cartridge belts.

Stopping in front of a dugout, the Major gathered