The C. O. lifted a curtain of bagging as you might lift a hanging over an alcove bookcase, and a young officer, rising from his blankets in his house in the trench-wall to a stooping posture, said that all was quiet. His uniform seemed fleckless. Was it possible that he wore some kind of cloth which shed mud spatters? He was another of the type of Captain P----, my host at Neuve Chapelle; a type formed on the type of seniors such as his C. O. Unanalysable this quality, but there is something distinguished about it and delightfully appealing. A man who can be the same in a trench in Flanders in midwinter as in a drawing-room has my admiration. They never lose their manner, these English officers. They carry it into the charge and back in the ambulance with them to England, where they wish nothing so much as that their friends will “cut out the hero stuff,” as our own officers say. In other dank cellars soldiers who were off guard were lying or sitting. The radiance of the flares lighted the profiles of those on guard, whose faces were half hidden by coat collars or ear-flaps-- imperturbable, silent, marooned and marooning, watchful and fearless. The thing had to be done and they were doing it; and they were going to keep on doing it. There was nothing dry in that trench, unless it was the bowl of a man’s pipe. There were not even any braziers. In your nostrils was the odour of the soil of Flanders, cultivated by many generations through many wars. As night wore on the sky was brightened by cold, winter stars and their soft light became noticeable between the disagreeable flashes of the flares. We walked on and on. It was like walking in a winding ditch; that was all. The same kind of walls at every turn; the same kind of dim figures in saturated, heavy army overcoats. Slipping off the board walk into the ooze, one was thrown against the mud wall as his foot sank. Then he held fast to his boot straps lest the boot remain in the mud while his foot came out. Only the C. O. never slipped. He knew how to tour trenches. The others were as clumsy beside him as if they were trying to walk a tight rope. “Good night!” he said to each group of men as he passed, with the cheer of one who brings a confident spirit to vigils in the mud and with that note of affection of the commander who has learned to love his men by the token of ordeals when he saw them hold fast against odds. “Good night, sir!” they answered; and in their tone was something which you liked to hear--a finer tribute to the C. O. than medals which kings can bestow. It was affection and trust. They were ready to follow him, for they knew that he knew how to lead. I was not surprised when I heard of his promotion, later. I shall not be surprised when I hear of it again. For he had brain and heart and the gift of command. “Shall we go on or shall we go back?” he asked when we had gone about a mile. “Have you had enough?”