d cook, farther down the trench, could be heard grumbling
at the prospect of another packing-up, and a search in the dark for
fresh quarters. "We always lose knives and forks and crockery when we
move like this," Manning was saying in his heavy-dragoon voice.

"You and Wilde had better look for a headquarters somewhere near the
cross-roads at Nurlu," the major told me. "The adjutant and myself will
find where the batteries are and join you later."

There was a twenty minutes' delay because in the dark the G.S. waggon
had missed us and vanished round the corner of the wood. As we moved
off I felt a wet muzzle against my hand, and, stooping, perceived a dog
that looked like a cross between an Airedale and a Belgian sheep-dog.
"Hullo, little fellow!" I said, patting him. He wagged his tail and
followed me.

The German shelling had died down, and we hoped for an uneventful
journey. But night treks across ground that has been fought over
usually test one's coolness and common-sense. The Boche had blown up
the bridges over the canal, and descending the slope we had to leave
the road and follow a track that led to an Engineers' bridge, so well
hidden among trees that the enemy artillery had not discovered it. But
it was a long time before our little column completed the crossing. A
battery were ahead, and between them and us came a disjointed line of
infantry waggons--horses floundering in the mud, men with torches
searching for shell-holes and debris that had to be avoided. Only one
vehicle was allowed on the bridge at a time, and a quarter to eleven
came before the six mules scrambled the G.S. waggon over. The real
difficulty, however, was to decide upon the track to take the other
side of the canal. Maps were useless; these were tracks unknown to the
topographers. Not one of them followed the general direction in which I
believed Nurlu to be. I resolved to take the track that went
south-east, and hoped to come upon one that would turn due east. Heavy
shells, one every four minutes, rumbled high overhead, and crashed
violently somewhere south of us. "They are shooting into Moislains,"
said Wilde. We trudged along hopefully.

The dog was still with us, running in small circles round me. "That
must be the sheep-dog part of him," I said to Wilde. "He's a bit thin,
but he seems a wiry little chap."

The looked-for track due east came when I began to think that we were
drawing too near to where the big shells were falling. A