The most anxious time a soldier can know is the time, be it long or short, that follows the command to stand to. Many a time we had to stand to the whole night--the entire battalion, from evening twilight till the full dawn of day--as an attack was expected. Everyone was at his firing position, with bayonet fixed and his rifle loaded--and in tip-top working condition, the daily rifle inspection having taken place at dusk. Sometimes our artillery would presently open fire for the enemy's first line, perhaps for five or six minutes--it might be more, it might be less. Then a wait of six or seven minutes, when the enemy returned the fire, and we all got well down. It was as well to keep as hard up against the parapet as possible, and to keep out of all dug-outs, for into them the forward impetus of bursting shrapnel was likely to throw a lot of splinters. Again silence, comrades and pals passing a few remarks in anticipation of what everybody knew was coming. The officers with us were one with us, and at their words, "Well, come on, lads," there was never a laggard in getting "over the tops" (in our own phraseology). As soon as we put our hands on the sandbags to clamber over the top of the parapet a hailstorm of bullets pelted us. It is impossible--at all events for me--to describe a charge. Speaking for myself, always my brain seemed to snap. It was simply a rush in a mad line--or as much of a line as could be kept--towards the enemy's barbed wire entanglements, which our guns had blown to smithereens in preparation for the assault. We scrambled on to their parapet, each getting at the first man he could touch. When we had taken their position (we didn't always) we might have to wait some time till our artillery had shelled the second line, but there was a lot of work to be done at once. The parapet had to be reversed. After an attack there was generally a roll call--from which there were many absentees. More trying--more wearing and tearing to the nerves--than anything that in my experience ever followed it was the stand to itself. The moments, minutes, even hours, that followed that old familiar order, "stand to," were the worst I ever went through. As every eventide comes on I still feel just a little--just a very little--of what I felt then. Even now: and I fear me I always shall till death bids me stand to. I see I have written so much with only one illustration, that perhaps it won't be amiss if I place here a few typical heads and a couple of typical full figures, the original sketches of which I pencilled in spare places in my notebook at odd times. If they be really typical they need no labelling. [Illustration: TYPICAL FIGURES AND FIGURE-HEADS.] CHAPTER V. THE LIGHTER SIDE OF TRENCH LIFE.