e little spurts of flame which mark the enemy trench; sudden
flashes and explosions tell of bombs or grenades, and star shells from
both sides sweep high into the air to silhouette the unwary and to give
one something to fire at, for firing into the darkness with the
probability of hitting nothing more dangerous than a tree or a sandbag
is work of but little interest.

I wander on my rounds to see that all the sentries are on the alert,
and, suddenly, nearly fall over a man lying face downwards along the
bottom of the trench. "Here, you can't sleep here, you know; you give no
one a chance to pass," I say, and, for answer, I am told to "shut up,"
while a suppressed but still audible giggle from Private Harris warns me
that the situation is not as I had imagined. The figure in the mud gets
up and proves to be an officer of the Engineers, listening for sounds of
mining underneath us. "I think they're at it again, but I'm not certain
yet," he says cheerfully as he goes off to his own dug-out. I, in turn,
lie down in the mud with my ear pressed to the ground, and I seem to
hear, far beneath me, the rumble of the trolleys and the sound of the
pick, so that I am left for the rest of the night in the uncomfortable
expectation of flying heavenwards at any moment.

A buzz of voices which reaches me as I return from a visit to a working
party informs me that the one great event of the night has taken
place--the rations and the mail have arrived and have been "dumped" by
the carrying party in a little side trench. Before I reach the spot a
man comes hurrying up to me, "Please, sir," he says, "young Denham has
been hit by a rifle grenade. 'E's got it very bad." Just as I pass the
side trench, I hear the sergeant who is issuing the letters call:
"Denham. A letter for young Denham," and someone says, "I'll take it to
him, Sergeant, 'e's in my section."

But the letter has arrived too late, for when I reach the other end of
the trench Denham is dead, and a corporal, is carefully searching his
pockets for his letters and money to hand over to the platoon commander.
They have carried him close to the brazier for light, and the flames
find reflection on the white skin of his throat where his tunic has been
torn open, and there is an ugly black stain on the bandage that has been
roughly tied round him. Only one man in millions, it is true, but one
more letter sent home with that awful "Killed" written across it, and
one more mother mourn