The war trench is a ditch six feet or more in depth, with a fire step that brings a soldier to the height needful for firing upon an enemy. On the top of this trench, along the front edge of it, are laid bags filled with sand, so disposed as to give loopholes through which a rifle can be fired without requiring the soldier to expose his head. This trench is not built on a straight line, but zigzag like the teeth of an enormous saw, so that its machine-guns and riflemen can fire down and parallel along the trench. At every twenty feet or more, there is a barricade built across the trenches, so that if any enemy should get possession of one part of it, he can not, by artillery, machine-guns or rifles, fire down the whole length upon the men there; for this would be tremendously destructive. In front and about ten feet from the trench is a barricade of barbed wire. This is made by setting stakes very firmly in the ground so deep and solid that they can not be easily removed, and twisting barbed wire around them. It is impossible to pass through this entanglement without first destroying it by artillery fire, or cutting it; and this is costly to life. There are, in addition to this trench, three other rear trenches. These are joined with the front trench by connecting trenches, through which the soldier can pass with comparative safety. In these rear trenches are first aid and food stations; and in a dugout, safety sheltered and concealed in the rear, is the general who directs the fighting. To his dugout, or station, are connected wires or telephones and telegraph, so that he can conduct the fight, and receive intelligence of everything taking place on the battle line. Though he is in comparative safety his is a hard position; for he can not leave it without losing some point of importance, in the work of direction. The science of war, in its details, has vastly changed since the Civil War, though the principles that govern its larger movements are the same, modified somewhat by the new machinery used in fighting. It was October, 1917, when we had landed in France; it was now February, 1918, cold, bleak, and dreary. Rain, snow and sleet had made soldiering uncomfortable anywhere; and the trenches were no exception to this rule--but rather an exaggeration of it. It has sometimes seemed to me, that in my army life the most inconvenient times were always selected for its most disagreeable duties. This rule held good for our introduction to life in the trenches. It was a cold day. Snow covered the ground--at least that portion of it not trampled into the chalky mud, which, partially thawed, stuck to our feet like poultices. Marching, however, with heavy packs soon warmed us, and we were glad to arrive at our destination.