Hauptmann von Waldhofer, Batteriechef of the --th Battery Fussartillerie, stood, helmeted and with buttoned coat, hastily sipping a cup of steaming hot coffee in his dug-out. The electric light, fed from the power-station at Cambrai, miles back, illumined a cosy little apartment. Portraits of the Kaiser and Hindenburg looked stiffly from the matchboard walls in the incongruous company of a medley of coloured pages from _Simplicissimus_, _Jugend_, and, quaintly enough, the _Vie Parisienne_. One side was fully occupied by an enormous large-scale map of the Somme area, divided into numbered squares, heavily scored with blue pencil here and there, across which ran a great curve of red lines massed in intricate pattern--the enemy trenches, and radiating pin-supported coloured threads from a point slightly E.S.E. of Flers fan wise far across the opposing line. The battery-made bed, wiremesh stretched over a wooden frame, sloping slightly from the head downwards towards the foot, on which lay blankets in the disarray of recent use, bulked largely in the apartment. But there was still room for a little table, on which books and writing material were neatly arranged, and two comfortable plush-covered armchairs, besides the camp washstand in which the water yet steamed. A carpet, mudstained but thick and soft to the tread, covered the floor. In the corner remote from the bed was a stove whose long pipe bent at right angles below the roof and followed it until it ascended the steep stairway at the entrance. The deliberate comfort of the dug-out indicated long residence and the expectation of an indefinite stay. Only the pick and shovel in readiness by the door gave a hint of possible cataclysm. An orderly stood stiffly at attention while his master finished his coffee. The captain put down the cup. "What time is it?" he asked sharply. "A quarter to seven,[3] Herr Hauptmann." "What sort of morning?" "Clear, Herr Hauptmann, but very cold." "Any aeroplanes?" "None over the battery, Herr Hauptmann." The captain gave a final glance at himself in the French wall-mirror which hung over the table, touched lightly with his finger-tips the black and white ribbon of the Iron Cross upon his breast, as though flickering away a speck of dust, and turned to go. As he went the hanging calendar caught his eye. He tore off the top leaf. The date revealed was September 15th, 1916.