The sector to which we were assigned for duty had been occupied by some French troops, who were just moving out. They did not cheer us--for cheers are out of place in some parts of soldiering, especially where it may give information to the enemy. But they welcomed us with brightening eyes, and nods, and smiles of approval, as we filed into the trenches; and looked--so it seemed to me--not a little enviously at our well-filled packs with the heavy blankets of our outfit. We found the trenches which had been constructed for the _poilu_, a little shallow for taller Americans. And as we had been warned not to show our heads above the parapets, we had to crouch when moving through them. We were told that some of these trenches occupied by the French had board flooring; but ours did not, except in spots. “By Shorge,” said Peter Beaudett, “do they think we are feesh?” “An’ sure,” said Pat Quinn in a hoarse whisper, “no dacent fish would live here--it’s mud turtles that we are!” “Hush up,” commanded the top sergeant, in a hoarse whisper, “no noise; keep your ears and eyes open, but shut your mouths.” Silence followed; but as we threw off our packs, and were told to make ourselves comfortable, it seemed a little sarcastic. “If we mustn’t talk,” said Sam, in a low tone, “I suppose they can’t hinder us from keeping up a lot of thinking, can they?” “An’ how can a man think,” muttered Pat, “with all this half-frozen mud on his fate and moind?” We had settled down, in the mud, as one of the sergeants said to me with a wink, and with Yankee ingenuity were making ourselves as comfortable as we could. Private Shaw made a stove by punching holes in a metal bucket, and kindling a fire therein (which Corporal Sutherland said was “a kind of lightning bug heater”). He sat with it between his legs, trying to warm himself. Peter Beaudett, with his blanket wrapped around him, was saying all sorts of funny things in a low tone, about soldiering, and the irrepressible Quinn, with Irish combativeness, was making contrary replies. “What made me get into this mud,” grumbled Peter, “when I had a good home and such beeg lot of comforts that I didn’t know that I had any?” “An’ why,” said Quinn “didn’t ye’s stay tied to your mither’s apron string, so ye’s could crawl under the bed whin it thundered?” In spite of all this by-play of growling and seeming grumpiness, the men were not dissatisfied at being face to face with their enemy, or at least in the trenches opposite them. The opposing lines, meanwhile, were so silent that our men, peering cautiously through the “gun holes” as Sam called the spaces left between the sand bags piled on top in front, were curious to see the Boche, and could be hardly restrained from firing a shot to “stir them up.” This feeling also was seen in those of higher rank; for is it not natural for Americans to want to “see something doing”?