The trench was almost empty, for the men had been put in advance of it, for the most part. In places it was higher than the level of the ground, where great shells had hurled parapet on parados, leaving a gaping crater on one side or the other. Fear, a real personal, loathly fear, ran at my side. Just as I reached the trench an eight-five exploded on the spot I had crossed a second before. The force of the explosion threw me on my face, and earth rained down on me. I knelt, crouching, by the parapet, my breath coming in long gasps. “Lord, have mercy on my soul.” I rushed a few yards madly, up, down, over; another pause, while the shells pounded the earth, and great splinters droned. I dared not move, and I dared not stay. Every shadow of the trenches loomed over me like the menacing memory of some past unforgettable misdeed. Looking down I saw a blood-stained bandage in a pool of blood at my side, and I could smell that indescribable, fœtid smell of blood, bandages, and death. As I went round a traverse, speeding like a hunted hare, I stumbled over a man. He groaned deeply as I fell on him. It was one of my best N.C.O.’s, mortally wounded. An eternity passed before I could find his water-bottle. His face was a yellow mask, his teeth chattered against the lip of the water-bottle, his lips were swollen and dreadful. He lay gasping. “Can I do anything for you, old man?” With a tremendous effort he raised his head a little, and opened wide his glazing eyes. “Write ... sir ... to my ... mother.” Then, his head on my arm, he died. On, on, on, the sweat streaming from me, the fear of death at my heart. I prayed as I had never prayed before. At last I found Johnson. He gave me his report, and that of Townley, whom he had seen a few moments before. I went back, another awful trip, but met Major Ogilvie half-way. After nine and three-quarter hours, during which they threw all the ammunition they possessed at us, the German gunners “let up.” And Ogilvie and I went to sleep, along the trench, too weary to care what might happen next, to wake at dawn, stiff with cold, chilled to the bone, to face another day of “glorious war!” [Illustration: THE TEMPLE PRESS LETCHWORTH ENGLAND] TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Superscripted text is preceded by a carat character: B^1. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber using the original cover as the background and is entered into the public domain.