hat the most unconventional scene
presents itself. Strictly speaking, there ought to be--and generally
is--a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the first. This
should be occupied by all troops not required in the firing-trench.
But the trench is empty--which is not altogether surprising,
considering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful occupants are
scattered through the wood behind--in dug-outs, in redoubts, or _en
plein air_--cooking, washing, or repairing their residences. The whole
scene suggests a gipsy encampment rather than a fortified post. A
hundred yards away, through the trees, you can plainly discern the
Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that trench can discern you: yet
never a shot comes. It is true that bullets are humming through the
air and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due to the enterprise
of distant machine-guns and rifle-batteries, firing from some position
well adapted for enfilade. Frontal fire there is little or none. In
the front-line trenches, at least, Brother Boche has had enough of it.
His motto now is, "Live and let live!" In fact, he frequently makes
plaintive statements to that effect in the silence of night.

You might think, then, that life in Willow Grove would be a tranquil
affair. But if you look up among the few remaining branches of that
tall tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice shreds of some
material flapping in the breeze. Those are sandbags--or were. Last
night, within the space of one hour, seventy-three shells fell into
this wood, and the first of them registered a direct hit upon the
dug-out of which those sandbags formed part. There were eight men
in that dug-out. The telephone-wires were broken in the first few
minutes, and there was some delay before word could be transmitted
back to Headquarters. Then our big guns far in rear spoke out, until
the enemy's batteries (probably in response to an urgent appeal from
their own front line) ceased firing. Thereupon "A" Company, who at
Bobby Little's behest had taken immediate cover in the water-logged
support-trench, returned stolidly to their dug-outs in Willow Grove.
Death, when he makes the mistake of raiding your premises every day,
loses most of his terrors and becomes a bit of a bore.

This morning the Company presents its normal appearance: its numbers
have been reduced by eight--_c'est tout_! It may be some one else's
turn to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here for. Anyh