icult; words
get lost, and unnecessary words are added in transit. But I hope
you'll make a success of the job. Now we'll see how quickly we can get
hidden!"

A "screen" of scouts (one man to every fifty yards of frontage) took
up its place in line a furlong ahead. A hundred paces to rear of the
"screen" the officers marked out the position of the trenches, placing
soldiers as markers on the imaginary alignment. In front lay a clear
field of fire, a deadly area for an enemy advancing to the attack.

We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which we
always carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay. The night was
close and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening spring
verdure filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard the rumbling of
trains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking of
dogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song of
a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows.

In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and several
units of the party took off their tunics. One hapless individual got
into trouble immediately. His shirt was not regulation colour, it was
spotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards. A whispered order
from the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers.

"Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!"

The order was obeyed in haste, the white disappeared rapidly as the
arms of the culprit slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid his
wrong from the eyes of man.

The night wore on. Now and again a clock in the town struck out the
time with a dull, weary clang that died away in the darkness. On both
sides I could see stretching out, like some gigantic and knotted
rope, the row of bent workers, the voiceless toilers, busy with their
labours. Picks rose into the air, remained poised a moment, then sank
to tear the sluggish earth and pull it apart. The clay was thrown out
to front and rear, and scattered evenly, so that the natural contour
of the ground might show no signs of man's interference. And even as
we worked the section commanders stole up and down behind us, urging
the men to make as little sound as possible--our safety depended on
our silence. But pick and shovel, like the rifle, will sing at their
toil, and insistent and continuous, as if in threat, they rasped out
the almost incoherent song of labour.

A man beside me suddenly laid down his shovel and battled with a cough
that s