dness knows why we are supplied with them.

We came into the territory of another battalion, and were met by (p. 104)
an officer.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"For water, sir," said Pryor.

"Have you got permission from your captain?"

"No, sir."

"Then you cannot get by here without it. It's a Brigade order," said
the officer. "One of our men got shot through the head yesterday when
going for water."

"Killed, sir," I enquired.

"Killed on the spot," was the answer.

On our way back we encountered our captain superintending some digging
operation.

"Have you got the water already?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"How is that?"

"An officer of the ---- wouldn't let us go by without a written
permission."

"Why?"

"He said it was a Brigade order," was Pryor's naive reply. He wanted
to go up that perilous road. The captain sat down on a sandbag, took
out a slip of paper (or borrowed one from Pryor), placed his hat on
his knee and the paper on his hat, and wrote us out the pass. (p. 105)

For twenty yards from the trench the road was sheltered by our
parapet, past that lay the beaten zone, the ground under the enemy's
rifle fire. He occupied a knoll on the left, the spot where the
fighting was heavy on the night before, and from there he had a good
view of the road. We hurried along, the jars striking against our legs
at every step. The water was obtained from a pump at the back of a
ruined villa in a desolate village. The shrapnel shivered house was
named Dead Cow Cottage. The dead cow still lay in the open garden, its
belly swollen and its left legs sticking up in the air like props in
an upturned barrel. It smelt abominably, but nobody dared go out into
the open to bury it.

The pump was known as Cock Robin Pump. A pencilled notice told that a
robin was killed by a Jack Johnson near the spot on a certain date.
Having filled our jars, Pryor and I made a tour of inspection of the
place.

In a green field to the rear we discovered a graveyard, fenced in
except at our end, where a newly open grave yawned up at us as if
aweary of waiting for its prey.

"Room for extension here," said Pryor. "I suppose they'll not (p. 106)
close in this until the graves reach the edge of the roadway. Let's
read the epitaphs."

How peaceful the place was. On the right I could see through a space
between the walls of the cottage the wide winding street of the
village, the houses, cornstacks, and the wavin