tched as he stumbled.

We got safely into the trench and relieved the Highland Light Infantry.
The place was very quiet, they assured us, it is always the same. It
has become trench etiquette to tell the relieving battalion that it is
taking over a cushy position. By this trench next morning we found six
newly made graves, telling how six Highlanders had met their death,
killed in action.

Next morning as I was looking through a periscope at the enemy's (p. 145)
trenches, and wondering what was happening behind their sandbag line,
a man from the sanitary squad came along sprinkling the trench with
creosote and chloride of lime.

"Seein' anything?" he asked.

"Not much," I answered, "the grass is so high in front that I can see
nothing but the tips of the enemy's parapets. There's some work for
you here," I said.

"Where?"

"Under your feet," I told him. "The floor is soft as putty and smells
vilely. Perhaps there is a dead man there. Last night I slept by the
spot and it turned me sick."

"Have you an entrenchin' tool?"

I handed him the implement, he dug into the ground and presently
unearthed a particle of clothing, five minutes later a boot came to
view, then a second; fifteen minutes assiduous labour revealed an
evil-smelling bundle of clothing and decaying flesh. I still remained
an onlooker, but changed my position on the banquette.

"He must have been dead a long time," said the sanitary man, as he (p. 146)
flung handfuls of lime on the body, "see his face."

He turned the thing on its back, its face up to the sky. The features
were wonderfully well-preserved; the man might have fallen the day
before. The nose pinched and thin, turned up a little at the point,
the lips were drawn tight round the gums, the teeth showed dog-like
and vicious; the eyes were open and raised towards the forehead, and
the whole face was splashed with clotted blood. A wound could be seen
on the left temple, the fatal bullet had gone through there.

"He was killed in the winter," said the sanitary man, pointing at the
gloves on the dead soldier's hands. "These trenches were the
'Allemands' then, and the boys charged 'em. I suppose this feller
copped a packet and dropped into the mud and was tramped down."

"Who is he?" I asked.

The man with the chloride of lime opened the tunic and shirt of the
dead man and brought out an identity disc.

"Irish," he said, "Munster Fusiliers." "What's this?" he asked, taking
a string