(and his entire person exposed) to the view of a Boche trench
situated on a hill-slope upon his immediate left.

And our trench-line, with its infinity of salients and re-entrants,
is itself only part of the great salient of "Wipers." You may imagine
with what methodical solemnity the Boche "crumps" the interior of that
constricted area. Looking round at night, when the star-shells float
up over the skyline, one could almost imagine one's self inside a
complete circle, instead of a horseshoe.

The machine-gunners of both sides are extremely busy. In the plains of
France the pursuit of their nefarious trade was practically limited to
front-line work. When they did venture to indulge in what they called
"overhead" fire, their friends in the forefront used to summon them
after the performance, and reproachfully point out sundry ominous
rents and abrasions in the back of the front-line parapet. But here
they can withdraw behind a convenient ridge, and _strafe_ Boches a
mile and a half away, without causing any complaints. Needless to say,
Brother Boche is not backward in returning the compliment. He has one
gun in particular which never tires in its efforts to rouse us from
_ennui_. It must be a long way off, for we can only just hear the
report. Moreover, its contribution to our liveliness, when it does
arrive, falls at an extremely steep angle--so steep, indeed, that it
only just clears the embankment under which we live, and falls upon
the very doorsteps of the dug-outs with which that sanctuary is
honeycombed.

This invigorating shower is turned on regularly for ten minutes, at
three, six, nine, and twelve o'clock daily. Its area of activity
includes our tiny but, alas! steadily growing cemetery. One evening a
regiment which had recently "taken over" selected 6 P.M. as a suitable
hour for a funeral. The result was a grimly humorous spectacle--the
mourners, including the Commanding Officer and officiating clergy,
taking hasty cover in a truly novel trench; while the central figure
of the obsequies, sublimely indifferent to the Hun and all his
frightfulness, lay on the grass outside, calm and impassive amid the
whispering hail of bullets.

As for the trenches themselves--well, as the immortal costermonger
observed, "there ain't no word in the blooming language" for them.

In the first place, there is no settled trench-line at all. The
Salient has been a battlefield for twelve months past. No one has ever
had the tim