Chapter V: Part 5

We are trying to work one of our little cunning stunts to-day. Last night I had an observation patrol out, and having no special job on, decided to devote our time to the examination of the Boche wire--their entanglements, you know, in the sector opposite our particular line. I had only two men with me: one of my own Platoon scouts and a lad named Hankin, of whom I have great hopes as a sniper. He's in my No. 3 Section, and a very safe and pretty shot with a rifle, especially at long ranges. He'd never been on patrol and was most anxious to go, and to have an opportunity of looking at the Boche line, to verify his suspicions regarding certain holes in the ground which he thought their snipers used. Our patrol had two interesting results, for one of which we have to thank Hankin's intelligence. The other was a bit of luck. The reason I took such a small patrol was that the aim was observation pure and simple; not strafing; and the men were more than usually tired, and had a lot of parapet repair work which had to be put through before daylight.

It was about a quarter to one in the morning when we went out, there having been too much moonlight before then. Hankin had prepared a regular chart of the Boche line from his own observations from his sniping post; quite a clever little map it is, showing clearly his suspected sniping shelters, of which there are four. We drew a blank in the first two of these, and for the third had to tack back from the line of the Boche wire, towards our own, along the side of an old sap, all torn to bits and broken in with shell fire. Hankin felt certain he had seen the flash of rifles from this hole; but I thought it was too near our own wire to attract any Boche sniper for regular use.

I need hardly say that on a job of this sort one moves very slowly, and uses the utmost possible precaution to prevent noise. It was now absolutely dark, the moon having gone down and the sky being much overcast. But for my luminous-faced compass (which one consults under one's coat flap to prevent it from showing) we should have been helpless. As it was, on the bearings I worked out before starting, we steered comfortably and fairly accurately.

All of a sudden came a shock, a rifle fired, as it seemed, under our noses, actually from about twenty-five paces ahead on the track we were making.

"That's him, sir," breathed Hankin in my right ear.

I looked at the compass. The shot came from dead on the spot where Hankin's third hole should be; the one we were making for then.

"How about a little bomb for him, sir?" whispered the scout on my left.

But I shook my head. Too much like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, and too much like asking the Boche for machine-gun fire. It was fair to assume the Boche sniper who fired that shot would be facing our trenches; the same direction in which we were facing at that moment, since we were working back from the German wire towards our own. I pushed my lips close up to Hankin's ear and whispered: "We'll try stalking him." Hankin nodded, quite pleased.

Then I whispered to the scout to follow us very, very carefully, and not too closely. I didn't want him to lose touch, but, for the sake of quietness, one would sooner, of course, go alone. We kept about six paces between us laterally, Hankin and myself, and we advanced by inches.

I must say I should have been grateful for a shade more light, or less inky blackness. The edge of that sniper's hole was not sloping, but sheer; and, crawling slowly along, I struck my right hand clean over it into nothingness, letting my chest down with an audible bump. Right before me then I heard a man's body swing round on the mud, and the sniper let out some kind of a German exclamation which was a sort of squeal. It was, really, much more like some wild animal's cry than anything human. I had to chance it then. The sound was so amazingly close. I couldn't see him, but-- And when I sprang, the thing my hands gripped on first was not the beggar's windpipe or shoulders, as I had hoped, but his rifle, carried in his left hand on his left side.

It was rather like tom-cats coming to blows. I swear he spat. As you know, I'm rather heavy, and I think my spring, slightly to his left, knocked him off his balance. He hadn't any chance. But, though I got his left wrist, and covered his mouth with my chest, I was a bit uneasy about his right hand, which for the moment I couldn't find. Lucky for me he hadn't got a dagger in it, or he might have ripped me open. But Hankin pretty soon found his right hand, and then we hauled him up to his feet. I passed his rifle to the scout, and we just marched him along the front of our wire to Stinking Sap, and so into our own front trench; Hankin holding one of his arms, I taking the other, and the scout coming behind with the muzzle of the man's own rifle in the small of his back. There was no need to crawl, the night being as black as your hat; and in three or four minutes we had that sniper in front of "the Peacemaker" in the Company dug-out.

It was neat, wasn't it? And all thanks to the ingenious Hankin's careful observations and his chart. He'll get his first stripe for that, and very soon have another to keep it company, or I'm much mistaken. "The Peacemaker" was delighted, and wrote a full report of the capture to be sent down to Headquarters with the prisoner. Snipers are worth capturing, you know, and this looked like an intelligent chap whose cross-examination might be useful to our Brass-hats.

Queer thing about this sniper, he spoke English almost like a native. We are not allowed to examine prisoners on our own account. All that's done by the powers behind the line. But this fellow volunteered a little talk while we were getting the report made out. He was quite satisfied when he realised we were not going to harm him in any way, but it was perfectly clear he had expected to be done in. You'd have thought he would have known better. He'd spent nine years in London, part of the time a waiter, and later a clerk. He had lived at Kennington, and then in lodgings on Brixton Hill, I'll trouble you. Extraordinary, isn't it? He'd been told that London was practically in ruins, and that the Zepps had made life there impossible. He also thought that we in France were completely cut off from England, the Channel being in the hands of the German Navy, and England isolated and rapidly starving! I gather the Boches in the fighting line have no notion at all of the real facts of the war.

Well, having been so far successful, we decided to resume our patrol, the main purpose of which--examination of the Boche wire--hadn't been touched yet. So off we went again down Stinking Sap; and I could see that Hankin and Green, the scout, bore themselves as victors, with something of the swank of the old campaigner and hero of a thousand patrols. A great asset, mind you, is a reasonable amount of swank. These two had not been out before this night, but already they climbed over the parapet and moved about in No Man's Land with a real and complete absence of the slightest hint of nervousness.

Now I must cut this short because I have to go an errand for "the Peacemaker," to have a little talk with a Battery Commander. We had a pretty good prowl up and down the Boche wire, and made an interesting discovery on the extreme left of our sector. There was a shade more light then; not from the moon, of course, but from stars; the sky having become less overcast. I ran my nose right up against a miniature sign-post; a nice little thing, with feathers stuck in cracks near the top of it, presumably to give Boche patrols their bearings. I should have liked to take it away as a souvenir, but I didn't want to arouse Hun suspicions, so left it. The interesting thing was that this little sign-post--about eighteen inches high, planted among the front wire stakes--pointed the way in to the Boche trenches by an S-shaped lane through their wire entanglements; so shaped, of course, as to prevent it from being easily seen from our line.

We crawled along this lane a bit, far enough to make sure that it was a clear fairway into the Boche front trench. Then I got a careful bearing, which I subsequently verified half a dozen times; and we made our way back to Stinking Sap. I haven't time to tell you of our cunning plan about this discovery. That's what I'm to see the Battery Commander about. But if we can make the arrangement we want to make with the gunners, we'll bring off a nice little bombing raid to-night, and I'll let you know all about it in my next letter. Meanwhile I must scurry off, or I shall miss the Battery Commander in his rounds, and there will be a telling-off for your

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

AN ARTFUL STUNT

Out of trenches again. I wanted to write you yesterday to tell you about the bombing raid of our last night in; but we had a full day, and were not relieved till late evening; so I got no chance of writing till this afternoon. But I can tell you we came out with our tails well up this time, and "A" Company putting on more side than ever. I dare say "D" Company, our closest rivals, will put up something pretty startling when we go in again. They're very determined to beat our record in every kind of strafing, and I'm bound to say they do put up some good shows. They've two more officers than we have now, and the Boche has discovered that they are very much out for business.

Whether we get Bavarians or Prussians opposite us it makes small odds; they've no earthly chance of a quiet time while we're in the line. The public at home read about the big things, and I suppose when they read that "The rest of the Front was quiet," they're inclined to wonder how we put our time in. Ah, well! the "quiet" of the dispatches wouldn't exactly suit a conscientious objector, I can assure you. It's a kind of "quiet" that keeps Master Boche pretty thoroughly on the hop. But on the whole, I'm rather glad the dispatches are like that. I'd be sorry to see 'em make a song and dance about these little affairs of ours. Only, don't you run away with the idea that when you read "Remainder of the Front quiet," it means the Boche was being left alone; for he isn't, not by long odds.

You will remember that opposite our extreme left I had discovered an S-shaped opening leading through the barbed wire to the Boche front line, so cut, no doubt, for the convenience of their patrols at night. We decided that we would make use of that opening for a bombing raid on our last night in. Now, you must understand that one of the chief uses of the barbed-wire entanglements is to keep off the prowling bomber. The entanglements extend to, say, forty to sixty paces from the trench. You cannot hope to make accurate practice in bomb-throwing at a distance of more than thirty yards. Consequently, as I explained before, to shy bombs into the average trench the bomber must worry his way through twenty paces or so of barbed-wire entanglements. It is very difficult to do that without attracting the attention of sentries, and impossible to do it quickly with or without noise. Hence you perceive the unpleasant predicament of the bomber when he has heaved his first bomb. He has offered himself as a target to the Boche machine-guns and rifles at a moment when he is in the midst of a maze of barbed wire, from which he can only hope to retreat slowly and with difficulty.

Then why not cut a lane through the Boche wire by means of shells, just before dark, and use that to bomb from after dark? Excellent. Only, if you were the Boche and we cut a lane through your wire one evening just before dark, wouldn't you train a machine-gun or two on that opening so that you could sweep it with fire at any moment you wished during the night; and wouldn't you have a dozen extra rifles with keen eyes behind 'em trained on the same spot; and wouldn't you be apt to welcome that nice little lane as a trap in which you could butcher English Tommies like sitting pheasants? Wouldn't you now?

Well, my business with the Battery Commander was to get on his right side and induce him to expend a certain number of rounds from his dear little guns that afternoon in cutting a nice line through the Boche entanglements opposite the extreme right of our line. It happened that, without interfering with the sort of sinking fund process by which the lords of the guns build up their precious reserves of ammunition, this particular lord was in a position to let us have a few rounds.

Of course, our attitude towards the gunners is not always strictly reasonable, you know. We are for ever wanting them to spend ammunition, while their obvious duty is to accumulate ammunition greedily and all the time against the hours of real need, so that when these hours come they may simply let everything rip--take the lid right off. However, for reasons of their own, apart from mine, it happened fortunately that the gunners were not at all averse from giving that bit of the Boche line a mild pounding; and, accordingly, they promised us a nice neat lane on the extreme right by nightfall.

We said nothing about the beautiful S-shaped lane on the extreme left, which Master Boche thought was known only to himself. Observe our extreme artfulness. We proceeded to train a grenade rifle on the extreme right, likewise a machine-gun. Then we proceeded to tell off our best bombers, and overhaul carefully a good supply of hand-grenades for use in the S-shaped opening on our extreme left.

Until midnight there was a certain amount of moonlight, and for several hours we kept the Boche very busy on our extreme right, where, with a trifling expenditure of ammunition, the guns had cut a lane for us through his barbed wire. I've no doubt at all that Fritz had several machine-guns concentrated on that spot, and a bunch of rifle-men too. He made up his mind he would have the English on toast in that lane, and we encouraged him to think so.

You know, at night-time it is not very easy to tell the difference between the explosion of a hand-grenade and that of a rifle-grenade. But whereas the hand-grenade could only be lobbed in from among the wire, the rifle-grenade could easily be sent over from our trench at that particular spot on our right. So we sent 'em over at all kinds of confusing intervals. And then, when Boche opened machine-gun fire across the lane, under the impression that our bombers were at work there, we replied with bursts of machine-gun fire on his parapet opposite the lane, thereby, I make no doubt, getting a certain number of heads. It is certain they would be looking out, and equally certain they would not be expecting fire from our trenches, when they thought we had our own bombers out there.

It was an attractive game, and we kept it going till nearly midnight. Then we stopped dead, leaving them to suppose we had given up hope of overcoming their watchfulness. We arranged to reopen the ball at 1.30 A.M. precisely, with rifle-grenades and machine-gun fire as might prove suitable, but with no end of a row in any case.

At one o'clock I started from Stinking Sap, on our extreme left, with twelve of our best bombers, each carrying an apronful of bombs. There wasn't a glimmer of any kind of light. We made direct for the S-shaped opening, and lay down outside the wire there. In our own trench, before starting, we had made all arrangements. I had six men on either side of me, and each man knew precisely what his particular job was. "The Peacemaker" never tires of insisting on that principle, and, of course, he is right. Nothing is any good unless it is worked out beforehand so that each man knows exactly his job, and concentrates on that without reference to anyone else, or any hanging about waiting instructions.

At 1.20 we began crawling down the S-shaped opening in our proper order. At 1.30 the first rifle-grenade ripped over from the extreme right of our line. Others followed in quick succession, and on the report of the sixth we jumped to our feet and ran forward, extending to right and left from me as we reached the inside of the wire, and chucking our first bombs--thirteen of 'em--as we got into position. It was so close there was no possibility of missing, and I can tell you thirteen bombs make some show when they all explode beautifully right inside a trench a few yards in front of you.

Then we all scrambled over the parapet down into the trench over a front of, say, thirty paces. The six men on my right hand at once turned to their right, and those on my left to their left. It worked splendidly. Each party travelled along the trench as quickly as it could, bombing over each traverse before rounding it. The row was terrific.

In that order each party went along six successive bays of the trench. Then immediately they began to reverse the process, travelling more slowly this time and bombing more thoroughly. They were working back on their centre now, you understand, still bombing outward, of course. We had the luck to strike a splendid piece of trench with no fewer than three important dug-outs in it, and we made a shambles of each of them. It was wildly exciting while it lasted, but I suppose we were not more than four or five minutes in the trench. We exploded thirty-two bombs during those few minutes, every single one of them with good effect; and when we scrambled out into the S-shaped opening again we took with us an undamaged Boche machine-gun and four prisoners, one of them wounded and three unwounded. We killed nine men in the trench, and a good round number in the three dug-outs. I had a bunch of maps and papers from the first of those dug-outs. And we didn't improve their trench or the dug-outs. Thirty-two bombs make a difference.

The machine-gun hampered us a bit, but I can tell you we made pretty good time getting across to Stinking Sap. The Boches were hopelessly confused by the whole business, and while we were crossing to the extreme left of our own line they were wildly blazing at our extreme right and pouring flares and machine-gun fire over the lane through their wire. Naturally, nobody was in the least exposed on our right, except perhaps the man operating the machine-gun, which probably did good execution among Boche observers of that neat little lane our artillery had cut for us.

It was a delightful show and cost us nothing in casualties, except two men very slightly wounded, one in the right foot and the other in the left hand and arm from our own bomb splinters. But, as our good old bombing Sergeant said, it "fairly put the wind up them bloomin' sauer-krauters." Incidentally, and owing far more to the fine behaviour of the men than to anything I did, it earned a lot of bouquets from different quarters for your

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

P.S.--Next day's report as served up to you and the public in the newspapers at home would, of course, and rightly enough no doubt, include our sector in the "remainder of the Front," which was "quiet." Or we might be included in a two-line phrase about "minor activities," or "patrols were active on various points of the line"--as they certainly are all the time.

THE SPIRIT OF THE MEN

The parcels from W----'s arrived all safe and sound, thanks to your careful arrangements, and we are, in consequence, living in the lap of luxury. The tinned fruit is specially appreciated, and very good for us, I've no doubt. By the way, you will be glad to know that the boiler-maker's suit in one piece of water-proofed canvas is a huge success. I wore it on that last bombing raid. For patrol work, or wiring, for anything over the parapet, and in the trench, too, at night-time, for instance, I don't think there's anything to beat it. There's nothing to catch or get in one's way, and it's a great joy to keep one's ordinary clothes clean and decent. On patrol it's better than oilskin, because it's silent--doesn't rustle.

I dare say you've heard that phrase--I forget whose it is--about the backbone of the Army being the non-commissioned man. I suspect it was all right when it was written, and goodness knows, there's not much the matter with the non-commissioned man to-day. Only, there isn't the difference that there was between the N.C.O. and the "other ranks"--the men. The N.C.O. isn't the separate type he was, because the N.C.O. of to-day is so often the man of yesterday; promotion having necessarily been rapid in the New Army. We had to make our own N.C.O.'s from the start. They're all backbone, now, men and N.C.O.'s alike. And the officers are quite all right, thank you, too. I doubt whether officers in any Army have ever worked harder than the officers of our New Army--the "Temporary Gentlemen," you know--are working to-day. They have had to work hard. Couldn't leave it to N.C.O.'s, you see, because, apart from anything else, they've had to make the N.C.O.'s out of privates; teach 'em their job. So we're all backbone together.

And when you hear some fellow saying "The men are splendid," you need not think he's just paying a conventional tribute or echoing a stereotyped kind of praise. It's true; "true as death," as Harry Lauder used to sing; it's as true as anything I know. It's Gospel truth. The men are absolutely and all the time splendid.

I'm not an emotional sort of a chap, and I'm sure before the war I never gave a thought to such things; but, really, there is something incurably and ineradicably fine about the rough average Englishman, who has no surface graces at all. You know the kind I mean. The decency of him is something in his grain. It stands any test you like to apply. It's the same colour all the way through. I'm not emotional; but I don't mind telling you, strictly between ourselves, that since I've been out here in trenches I've had the water forced into my eyes, not once, but a dozen times, from sheer admiration and respect, by the action of rough, rude chaps whom you'd never waste a second glance on in the streets of London; men who, so far from being exceptional, are typical through and through; just the common, low-down street average.

That's the rough, rude, foul-mouthed kind, with no manners at all, and many ways that you hate. But I tell you, under the strain and stress of this savage existence he shows up for what he really is, under his rough, ugly hide: he's jewel all through without an ounce of dirty Boche meanness or cruelty in his whole carcass. You may hate his manners if you like but you can't help loving him; you simply can't help it if you work alongside of him in the trenches in face of the enemy.

And that's not the only type we've got that makes you want to take your hat off to Tommy, and that puts a real respect, which perhaps the civilian doesn't understand, into your salutes. (It's only silly puppy boys, or officers who've never been in the presence of an enemy, or faced immediate danger with men, who can't be bothered properly and fully acknowledging salutes. You watch a senior, one who's learned his lessons in real service, and you'll find nothing grudging or casual or half-hearted. We get into the French way here, with a hint of the bow, a real salutation in our salutes.) Even more striking, I sometimes think, is the sterling stuff we find in types of men in the ranks who haven't naturally anything rough or hard about them: like my ex-draper chap, you know, in No. 3 Platoon, Ramsay. We've a number of the same calibre. He was a pillar of his chapel at home and--of all things--a draper: a gentle, soft-spoken dealer in ribbons and tape. I told you, I think, how he fought with a man in his section when he fancied he was not going to be allowed to go out one night with a bombing party.

You read about calling for volunteers. With our lot it's hopeless to call for volunteers for a dangerous job. The only thing to do would be to call for volunteers to stay behind. The other thing's simply a way of calling out the whole Company; and if it happens to be just half a dozen you want, that's awkward.

Then there's the matter of grousing--growling among themselves about this and that. You would be deceived about this until you got to know them a bit. It's a queer thing, and not easy to explain, but grousing is one of the passions of their lives, or, perhaps it would be truer to say, a favourite form of recreation. But, mark you this, only when everything is going smoothly, and there is nothing real to grumble about. It would seem to be absolutely forbidden to growl when there's anything to growl about; a sort of unwritten law which, since we've been out here, anyhow, is never transgressed.

It's rather fine, this, you know, and very English. So long as there's a little intermittent grousing going on you can be quite sure of two things--that there's nothing wrong and that the men are in good spirits and content. If there's no grousing, it means one of two things--either that the men are angered about something, in which case they will be unusually silent, or that we are up against real difficulties and hardships involving real suffering, in which case there will be a lot of chaffing and joke-cracking and apparent merriment.

Queer, isn't it? But I think it's a true description. If a long day's hard labour--clearing out a trench and building up a parapet, we'll say--is undone and washed out just as it's finished by a succession of Boche oil-cans, mortars, and general bombardment, which also lays out a few good men, and blows the next meal rations sky-high, so that there's the prospect of a long night's extra hard work where some rest had been expected, and all on an empty stomach--then you'll hear no grousing at all, but any number of jocular remarks:

"I tell you, the Army of to-day's _all right_!" "We don't get much pay, but, my word, we _do_ see life!" "Save me a lot o' trouble, this will. My fightin' weight was goin' up a lot too fast, but this'll save me givin' up my port wine an' turtle soup!" Then some wag pretends to consult his newspaper, and, looking up, announces that: "On the remainder of the Front the night was comparatively quiet." "Yes," says another, quoting further from the imaginary news, "and the banquet which had been arranged for 'A' Company was pos'poned till the following day." "When it is hoped," adds yet another joker, "that a number of prominent Boche prisoners will attend." Elaborate winks and nods; and one man positively licks his lips as he mutters: "Gosh! If only they really _would_ come over the sticks to-night; if only they would!" "Reg'ler bloomin' pacifist, isn't he?" remarks a student of the Press, "longin' to welcome the gentle Hun with open arms, he is--not 'arf!" "We'll welcome him all right, if only the beggar 'd come. I'd like to use a section or two of 'em for buildin' up this bloomin' parapet. Be stiffer than these sand-bags full o' slush." "Shame! An' you a yewmanitarian, too. Why, how'd our poor chaps ever be able to stand the smell of all them potted Huns, an' so close, too? You're too harsh, mate; reg'ler Prussian, I call you."

So it goes on. It's a bitter cold night. They are up nearly to their thighs in half-frozen slush. Their day's work has been entirely undone in half an hour, and has to be done over again without any interval for rest; and the supper ration's "gone West." You can hardly imagine what the loss of a meal means, with a night like that ahead of you, and occasional shells still dropping round the bit you must repair. They look awful ruffians, these chaps; caked all over with mud, hair and eyebrows and all; three or four days' stubble on their chins, and all kinds of ribaldry on their lips. They love their ease and creature comforts at least as much as any conscientious objector could; and God knows they are here as far removed from ease and creature comfort as men well could be--entirely of their own free will. And they will carry on all night, cracking their simple jokes and chaffing one another, and jostling each other to get to the front if one or two are required for anything extra dangerous. And the spirit that dictates their little jokes, isn't it as fine as any shown in bygone days by the aristocrats of France and England? If you told these fellows they were aristocrats, imagine how they'd take it! "'Ere, 'op it! Not so much of it! Wotcher givin' us?"

But aren't they--bless 'em! I tell you, when I come to compare 'em with the fellows we're up against across the way; with those poor devils of machine-driven Boches, with their record of brutish murder and swinishness in Belgium--why, there's not a shadow of doubt in my mind they are real aristocrats. The war has helped to make them so, of course. But, whatever the cause, they stand out, with the splendidly gallant _poilus_ of France: true aristocrats--five hundred miles of 'em from the North Sea to Switzerland, pitted against the deluded and brutalised, machine-driven Boches. There are no officers and machine driving our fellows, or the cheery, jolly French soldiers. Held back occasionally, directed always, they may be. There's no need of any driving on our side. Unquestioning obedience to an all-powerful machine may be a useful thing in its way. I know a better, though; and that's convinced, willing, eager determination, guided--never driven--by officers who share it, and share everything else the men have and do. And that's what there is all down our side of the line, from the North Sea to Switzerland.

But, look here; I've just read through my last page, and it seems to me I've been preaching, ranting, perhaps. I'd better stow it and get on with my work. You see, one can't _talk_ this kind of thing; and yet--I don't know, one feels it pretty often, and rather strongly. It's a bit of a relief to tell you something about it--in writing. Even to you, I probably shouldn't, by word of mouth, you know. One doesn't, somehow; but this sort of chatting with a pen is different. All I actually want to say, though it has taken such a lot of paper to say it on, is that the men really are splendid. I love them. (It certainly is easier writing than talking.) I want you to know about it; to know something about these chaps--they come from every class of the community--so that you'll love 'em, too. I wish we could make every woman, and every man and child, too, in England understand how fine these fellows are, and how fine, really, the life they're leading is.

For sheer hardness and discomfort there's nothing in the life of the poorest worker in England to compare with it. They are never out of instant danger. And the level of their spirits is far higher than you'd find it in any model factory or workshop at home. Death itself they meet with little jokes; I mean that literally. And the daily round of their lives is simply full of little acts of self-sacrifice, generosity, and unstudied, unnoted heroism, such as famous reputations are based upon in civil life in peace time. I feel I can't make it plain, as it deserves to be. I wish I could. But you must just accept it because I say it, and love 'em all--the French as well as ours--because they've made themselves loved by your

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

AN UNHEALTHY BIT OF LINE

Rather to the general surprise, we have been moved into a new sector of the line, immediately south of what we called "our own." We have not been told why--the Olympians do not deal in whys and wherefores--but, according to gossip, we can take our choice between the wish to make us all familiar with the general lie of the land round here, to be the better prepared for a push; and the undoubted fact that a new Division is being moved into the line, and that our move southward facilitates this. Perhaps the real reason of the move is a mixture of both these; but, whether or no, the move itself provides striking evidence of the marked differences which exist between different parts of the line, and the extremely narrow and circumscribed nature of the knowledge one gets of the Front while serving in trenches.

Our "B" Company is holding just now the subsection which actually adjoins the right of the sector we used to hold. We are on the right of "B," and "C" is on our right, with "D" back in the support line. Even "B's" bit, though it does adjoin our old beat, differs greatly from that; and our present short line is hemispheres away from the sector we knew before. There's not very much of it--about half the length of the line we last held--but what there is is hot and strong, I can tell you. The way in which "B" Company's bit differs is chiefly that it's in sandy soil, instead of all clay, and so is much drier and cleaner, more habitable in every way than anything we are accustomed to. But our bit, variously known as Petticoat Lane (why, I can't imagine), Cut-Throat Alley (obvious enough), and The Gut--well, our bit is, as "the Peacemaker" said directly he saw it, "very interesting." I think that's about the kindest thing you can say of it; and interesting it certainly is.

To begin with, the greatest distance between any one spot in it and the Boche front line is seventy or eighty yards; and there's a place at which it's only half that. But the salient point in the whole sector is this: the half of our line that is seventy or eighty yards from the Boche line has between it and the Boche line a string of craters, the far lips of which are not more than fifteen to twenty paces from Fritz's sentries. These craters are sometimes occupied by the Boche and sometimes by us; but nobody attempts to hold them by day; they don't give shelter enough for that; and the betting as to who is to hold them on any given night is about even.

You might almost say, "But why should anybody want to hold the beastly things?" And if you ever set foot in one of them, you'd say it with some feeling, for it's like trying to walk, or rather to crawl, in a bottomless pit of porridge. When dusk is coming on of an evening half a dozen of our bombers may start crawling from our parapet, making for the nearest crater. Maybe Fritz is dull and misses them. Maybe he opens such a hot fire they have to shin back quick. Maybe, just as we are getting close to the near edge of a crater, and flattering ourselves we've been a bit too nippy for the Boche this time, we get a rousing welcome from the crater itself, in the shape of three or four well-aimed bombs among us. Then those of us who are still able to think realise that the Boche has been a bit beforehand and got there first. Next night the process is reversed. During last night those confounded craters changed hands three times, remaining at last, I am glad to say, with us. We lost one man killed and two wounded. But we brought back two wounded and one dead Boche, and we reckon to have knocked out at least six others.

It was a nightmare of a night, to tell the truth, but nothing big enough to get into dispatches. One point about the holding of these craters is that it enables you to lob bombs, or almost anything else for that matter, into the Boche front trench. Down here we really are learning something about oil-cans, mortars, and short range heavy stuff generally. It's very much hand-to-hand warfare, and, I suppose because of that, much more savage and more primitive than anything we've seen before. There practically isn't any No Man's Land here. It's just our trench and their trench and the muddy, bloody cock-pit between, all churned into a slushy batter by high explosives, and full of all manner of ghastly remains. Souvenirs! By Heavens! the curio hunters could find all they wanted here within a few yards of where I'm sitting, but not many of 'em would have the spunk to gather 'em in. You see, I haven't any great respect for the souvenir hunter. He seems a ghoulish sort of a creature to me, and I can't believe the cynical old "Peacemaker" when he says the bulk of them, and all the more inveterate sort, are women.

The C.O. tells "the Peacemaker" he is so arranging things that no Company will get more than four days on end in Petticoat Lane, and then the other three days of the turn in trenches, in the support line, where Battalion Headquarters is. "A" Company, of course, takes glory to itself for having been the first to be sent in here, and I think this fully compensates them for the fact that nobody's had any rest worth speaking about since we got in. We shall probably do better in that respect when we have time to get used to the change. In fact, I can see a difference already in the men's attitude. But, mind you, the change is radical, from two hundred yards' interval between yourself and Fritz, down to fifty yards. It affects every moment of your life, and every mortal thing you do. More, it actually affects what you say. You don't make any telephonic arrangements about patrols and that sort of thing here. We are learning German at a great rate. But it was very startling to our fellows the first night, when they found they could hear voices in the enemy line. It seemed to bring Fritz and his ingenious engines very close indeed.

But already the men have begun to crack their little jokes about it, and pretend to be careful about setting down a canteen of tea or a bit of bread lest one of "them bloomin' sauer-krauters lean over and pick it up before you can turn round--hungry blighters!" I confess I'm conscious that the nearness represents a great deal of added nerve strain; but, thank goodness, the men don't seem to feel it a bit. They're just as jolly as ever. But it is mighty intimate and primitive, you know.

Imagine! The first thing I laid my hand on when I got into a crater on our first night, after we'd bombed Fritz out of it, was the face of a wounded Boche; and he bit my little finger to the bone, so that I had to have it washed and dressed by the M.O. for fear of poisoning. It's nothing; but I mention it as an instance of the savage primitiveness of this life at close quarters with the Boche.

There's simply no end to his dodgy tricks here. Three or four of 'em will cry out for help from a crater--in English, you know--and pretend to be our own men, wounded and unable to move, or Boches anxious to give themselves up. And then, if anyone's soft enough to get over the parapet to go and lend a hand, they open a hot fire, or wait till we get very near and then bomb. We had verbal warnings in plenty from the Company we relieved, but it's experience that teaches; and, whilst they may not be brilliant tricksters--they're not,--our fellows will at all events never allow the same trick to be worked off twice on us.

By his fondness for all such petty tricks as these--and, of course, they have dozens of dirtier ones than this--the Boche has rather shut the door on chivalry. Given half a chance, the natural inclination of our men is to wage war as they would play cricket--like sportsmen. You've only to indicate to them that this or that is a rule of the game--of any game--and they're on it at once. And if you indicated nothing, of their own choice they'd always play roughly fair and avoid the dirty trick by instinct. But the Boche washes all that out. Generosity and decency strike him as simply foolishness. And you cannot possibly treat him as a sportsman, because he'll do you down at every turn if you do; and here in Petticoat Lane being done down doesn't only mean losing your money. As a rule, you haven't any of that to lose. It means--"going West for keeps"; that is, being killed. It's that sort of thing that has made Petticoat Lane life savage and primitive; and the fact that it's so close and intimate as to be pressing on you all round all the time, that is what gives the additional nerve strain.

It is, of course, a great place for little raids. The trenches are so close that you're no sooner out of your own than you're on top of theirs. And I take it as evidence of the moral superiority being on this side of the line, that we see very much more of their trenches than they ever see of ours. It is a great deal more difficult to repair trenches here than it was when we were a couple of hundred yards away from the enemy, because of the frequency of the oil-cans and bombs. The consequence is that, from the point of view of the cover they give, both our trenches and the Boches' are much inferior to those we had before. But, curiously enough, we have some very decent dug-outs here, deep and well protected.

In fact, take it all round, we are not so badly off at all. And "interesting" the place most certainly is. ("The Peacemaker" generally means "dangerous" when he says "interesting.") There's something doing in the strafing line pretty nearly all the time; and strafing is a deal more interesting than navvying, pumping, and mud-shovelling. The chances for little shows of one sort and another are more numerous here than where we were before. We've tried one or two already, and when we get back into the support line you shall have full particulars from your somewhat tired but quite jolly

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

THEY SAY----

We were relieved in Petticoat Lane by "D" Company last night, and took the place they'd held in the support line; "a corner of Heaven itself," of course, after The Gut. And I have had a most luxurious and delightful day to-day, out of trenches altogether.

Our O.C. "the Peacemaker"--you do remember, don't you, that the Officer Commanding the Battalion is the C.O., and the Officer Commanding the Company the O.C.: saves confusion--is an awfully good chap. He didn't say anything about it, but I feel sure he put me on my job of to-day--chose me for it--because he thought it would be good for me. He was ordered to send an officer to arrange about billets for the Company in ---- ready for when we go out. Taffy's been a bit under the weather in Petticoat Lane, and is able to get a rest here in support. This meant rather more sticking to it for me in the front line, and, as a matter of fact, I didn't get an hour's sleep while we were there. We had little strafes going most of the time, and I was rather cheap when we came out last night; bit shaky, you know; that's all. Two Boche mines were exploded in The Gut while we were there; both with extraordinarily little loss to us. But I was lifted out of the trench by one of 'em; and I suppose these things do indirectly affect one a bit, somehow, even when there is nothing to show for it; at all events, when they are combined with shortage of sleep.

Anyhow, I'm as right as ninepence to-night, and had a fine sleep after midnight yesterday. And to-day, with "the Peacemaker's" horse for company, I've been playing the country gentleman at large and fixing up billets for the Company, and done pretty well for 'em, too. It was something of a race between Grierson of "D" and myself for the best officers' mess and sleeping quarters in ----; but Grierson hadn't much chance, really. He hasn't even my smattering of French, and his O.C. had not lent him a horse.

The goodwife at the place I've got for ourselves is a torrential talker, and in rounding up the boys and girls working on her farm she shows a bit of a temper; but I'm certain she's a jolly capable manager, and she has promised to cook for us, which will mean a fine change from the batman's efforts in that line. Also the billets themselves are good, those for the men being the best I've seen anywhere: dry as a chip, and thoroughly sheltered from the wind. We shall be in clover for our week out, especially as I think ---- is a bit too far back to admit of our being on trench fatigues at all while out.

I did enjoy the pottering about on my own, and the nearest firing being three or four miles away all the time, made everything seem so extraordinarily peaceful after the roaring racket and straining watchfulness of Cut-Throat Alley; where one's eyes sort of ache from trying to look all ways at once, and one's ears and head generally get dead from the effort of recording the precise meaning of each outstanding roar in the continuous din. Also I met two or three interesting people, including the Town Major in ----.

I had some grub about one o'clock in a big _estaminet_, almost a restaurant, really; and it was most interesting, after the trenches, to listen to the gossip and eat without feeling you had to look out for anything. There are a number of French residents left in this place, and this makes it different from the village we were last in, just behind the line, where the inhabitants have left, and the place is purely a camp, and partly in ruins at that. This place still has a natural human sort of life of its own, you know. And there are women in it, and a priest or two, and cows and sheep, and a town-crier, and that sort of thing--something fascinatingly human about all that, though it is within four miles of the firing line.

The café was simply full of rumours and gossip. Military gossip is, of course, taboo with strangers and civilians, and rightly, since one cannot be sure who is and who is not a spy. But I suppose there's no harm in it among people who can recognise each other's uniforms and badges. Anyhow, I heard a lot to-day, which may or may not have anything in it.

The things that interested me most were things about our own bit of front, and there were two definite reports about this. First, I heard that we are to throw out a new front-line trench to bridge the re-entrant south of Petticoat Lane. And then I heard we are to make a push to collar the Boche front line on the bend opposite us, because a few hundred yards of line there would mean a lot to us in the straightening of our front generally, and in washing out what is undoubtedly a strong corner for the Boche now, because it gives him some fine enfilading positions. If this were brought off it would wash out The Gut altogether as firing line, and that in itself would be a godsend. Also it would mean a real push, which is naturally what we all want. We think the fact of that extra Division having been fitted into our line rather endorses the report, and are feeling rather bucked in consequence. The whole Battalion, and for that matter the whole Division, is just spoiling for the chance of a push, and I doubt whether we've a man who wouldn't volunteer for the front line of the push at this moment, and jolly glad of the chance.

I said in my last letter that I'd tell you about our little strafing stunts while we were in Petticoat Lane. But, really, this new prospect of a push and the report about the new front-line trench to be cut make them seem pretty small beer, and quite a long way off now, anyhow. You remember I told you there was a startling difference between the left of our present sector and the right of the one we were in before. It wasn't only the difference between clay and sand, you know. It was that, whereas the right of the old sector was hundreds of yards away from the Boche--as much as six and seven hundred in parts--the left of the present sector runs down to sixty or seventy yards where it joins Petticoat Lane.

That means a big re-entrant in the line, of course, and a part where our front runs almost at right angles to Fritz's, instead of parallel with it. The new trench would be to bridge the mouth of this re-entrant, and equalise the distance between our line and the Boche's, right along. Apart from anything else, it would make any subsequent push much easier. It's a low-lying, wet, exposed bit, that re-entrant; but this wouldn't matter if we were just going to use it as a jumping-off place, which is what we hope.

However, as there's no official news, one mustn't think too much about it.

It seems there's been some sickness at our Brigade Headquarters, which is a château marked large on the map, though out of sight from the Boche line. The sickness among the orderlies was attributed to something queer about the drains, and I suppose the thing was reported on. Anyhow, as the story I heard to-day goes, a tremendous swell arrived in a car to have a look at the place; an Olympian of the first water, you understand. No doubt I should be executed by means of something with boiling oil in it if I mentioned his name. As he stepped from his car outside the château two shells landed, one on the lawn and one in the shrubbery. The Olympian sniffed at Fritz's insolence. Before he got into the doorway another shell landed very near his car, and spattered it with mud from bonnet to differential. The august one is reported to have greeted the Brigadier by saying rather angrily:

"This is obviously a most unhealthy spot, sir; most unhealthy. Ought never to have been chosen."