Also, by this time the Company Sergeant-Major will have arrived, with a couple of runners, each carrying under his arm a jar of mixed rum-and-water, half and half. Rum is never served out in any circumstances, save in the presence of an officer. So the officer on duty goes to one end of the line, and "the Peacemaker" to the other, and both work slowly back toward the centre, watching the serving out of the rum, and looking carefully over each man and his equipment. In the centre, the officer on duty probably waits, while the O.C. Company goes right on, so that he may see the whole of his line and every single man in it. So you see, in a way, Stand-to is a parade, as well as an important tactical operation. Because, remember, the sentries are keenly watching all this while, and so are a good many more pairs of eyes than look out at any other time. But, whereas the sentries are steadily gazing into the rapidly greying mysteries of No Man's Land, the other pairs of eyes are only taking occasional sharp glances, and then down again, below the parapet. There has probably been very little firing from either side during this time. Now, very suddenly, a violent crackling starts along to the left of the line. Instantly, every exposed head ducks. Fritz has started the first verse of his morning Hymn of Hate. He always thinks to catch us, and never does. We enjoy his hymn, because we love to see him waste his ammunition, as he proceeds to do now in handsome style. Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! The spray of his machine-guns traverses very neatly up and down the length of our parapet. His gunners are clearly convinced that at Stand-to time they are certain to get a few English heads. Then, as suddenly as he began, he stops; and--every head remains ducked. We've been at some pains to teach 'em that. Twenty seconds later--or it may be two minutes--the spray begins again, just where it stopped, or a hundred yards to right or left of that. The Boche is quite smart about this; only he seems to act on the assumption that we never learn anything. That's where he's rather sold. And, while Fritz sends forth his morning Hymn, our snipers in their carefully-hidden posts have their eyes glued on the neighbourhood of his machine-gun emplacements; and every now and again they get their reward, and the head of a Boche machine-gun observer, or some other Teuton whose curiosity overcomes his discretion, drops never to rise any more. Before the Hymn began, you understand, the greying mystery has grown considerably less mysterious, and one has been able to see almost as much in the pearly dawn light as one will see at high noon, especially in these misty localities.