ved they were
"bunkered" forever, and that all their training and tradition were made
futile by the digging in of armies. Now and again, when the infantry was
hard pressed, as in the second battle of Ypres and the battle of Loos,
they were called on to leave their horses behind and take a turn in the
trenches, and then they came back again, less some of their comrades,
into dirty billets remote from the fighting-lines, to exercise their
horses and curse the war.

Before they went into the line in February of '16 I went to see some
of those cavalry officers to wish them good luck, and saw them in the
trenches and afterward when they came out. In the headquarters of
a squadron of "Royals"--the way in was by a ladder through the
window--billeted in a village, which on a day of frost looked as quaint
and pretty as a Christmas card, was a party of officers typical of the
British cavalry as a whole.

A few pictures cut out of La Vie Parisienne were tacked on to the walls
to remind them of the arts and graces of an older mode of life, and to
keep them human by the sight of a pretty face (oh, to see a pretty girl
again!).

Now they were going to change this cottage for the trenches, this quiet
village with a church-bell chiming every hour, for the tumult in the
battle-front--this absolute safety for the immediate menace of death.
They knew already the beastliness of life in trenches. They had no
illusions about "glory." But they were glad to go, because activity was
better than inactivity, and because the risk would give them back their
pride, and because the cavalry should fight anyhow and somehow, even if
a charge or a pursuit were denied them.

They had a hot time in the trenches. The enemy's artillery was active,
and the list of casualties began to tot up. A good officer and a fine
fellow was killed almost at the outset, and men were horribly wounded.
But all those troopers showed a cool courage.

Things looked bad for a few minutes when a section of trenches was blown
in, isolating one platoon from another. A sergeant-major made his way
back from the damaged section, and a young officer who was going forward
to find out the extent of damage met him on the way.

"Can I get through?" asked the officer.

"I've got through," was the answer, "but it's chancing one's luck."

The officer "chanced his luck," but did not expect to come back alive.
Afterward he tried to analyze his feelings for my benefit.

"I had no sens