The field was level, rising at the further end to a low ridge, below which stood the targets. These, seen through the drizzle, were but great squares of pale tan color, only slightly relieved against the wet sand bank. In the middle of each of them I could just see a black dot. Between us and them, three hundred yards away, was extended a dark line of men, with here and there a smoking fire around which groups warmed themselves. From the thin line came irregularly spurts of smoke, and the spattering of rifle shots. It reminded me of an old picture of the field of Antietam, spiritless in itself, but here made alive by the movement, the noise, the drifting smoke, and the gray monotone. I watched it while the captain explained tomorrow's work; then, glad that today had not fallen to our lot, we marched on, taking up our route step in the soft sand of an old railroad bed. We were glad of our ponchos when the rain increased. As it poured down heavily we were a disreputable lot, all streaked with the wet, our hats slouched, our ponchos bunched in every direction with elbows, packs, and rifles. The rubber turned the cold wind and shed most of the rain; but as before, where our knees touched the ponchos the water came through, and wet us finely. Then the rain stopped and the clouds became thinner, but the wind remained cold; and when the captain slowly led us along the specimen trenches, explaining as he went, we all got pretty well chilled for lack of motion. I looked at David and saw that he was turning blue. The only mental relief came when we arrived at the shelter where a few days ago we found Vera. Corder looked at the sign in front of it, and read it out. "Machine gun emplacement! Very appropriate!" I couldn't help smiling, nor could the rest, except David, who for politeness tried to be blank, and thoroughly warmed himself by the inward struggle, turning quite red. When the captain got us back to the road and "fell us out" (note the idiom!) we had calisthenics, with pushing matches that put warmth into us. And then we marched in skirmish line through low bushes for half a mile, till the captain lined us up for blank cartridge practice. We had struck another part of the same abandoned railroad, from which was plainly visible, at perhaps two hundred yards, the gable of a deserted shack. The captain sent to it a couple of men, who tacked up a target on it. Then first the coaches, our experienced riflemen, and after them the platoons one by one, came forward, every man being ready with his two clips of blank cartridges. The slings were adjusted, each line as it came up loaded with the first clip, and at the command "Targets--up!" threw itself flat, took position, and began to fire. The lieutenant called out the ten second intervals. Proper firing would bring the exhaustion of the first clip at about one minute. Then the second clip would be inserted, and should be finished with the second minute.