A little farther on we came to an open space, with no protection between us and the Germans. Half a dozen men were piling earth against a staked chicken wire to extend the breastworks. Rather, they were piling mud, and they were besmirched from head to foot. They looked like reeking Neptunes rising from a slough. In the same position in daylight, standing full height before German rifles at three hundred yards, they would have been shot dead before they could leap to cover. “How does it go?” asked the captain. “Very well, sir; though what we need is sandbags.” “We’ll have some up to-morrow.” At the moment there was no firing in the vicinity. Faintly I heard the Germans pounding stakes, at work improving their own breastworks. A British soldier appeared out of the darkness in front. “We’ve found two of our men out there with their heads blown off by shells,” he said. “Have we permission to go out and bury them, sir?” “Yes.” They would be as safe as the fellows piling mud against the chicken wire, unless the Germans opened fire. If they did, we could fire on their working party, or in the direction of the sound. For that matter, we knew through our glasses by day the location of any weak places in their breastworks and they knew where ours were. A sort of “after-you-gentlemen-if-you-fire-we-shall” understanding sometimes exists between the foes up to a certain point. Each side understands instinctively the limitation of that point. Too much noise in working; a number of men going out to bury dead or making enough noise to be heard, and the ball begins. A deep, broad ditch filled with water made a break in our line. No doubt a German machine gun was trained on it. “A little bridging is required here,” said the captain. “We’ll have it done to-morrow night. The break is no disadvantage if they attack; in fact, we’d rather like to have them try for it. But it makes movement along the line difficult by day.” When we were across and once more behind the breastworks, he called my attention to some high ground in the rear. “One of our officers took a short cut across there in daylight,” he said. “He was quite exposed and they drew a bead on him from the German trench and got him through the arm. Not a serious hit. It wasn’t cricket for any one to go out to bring him in. He realised this and called out to leave him to himself, and crawled to cover on his hands and knees.” I was getting the commonplaces of trench life. Thus far it had been a quiet night and was to remain so. Reddish, flickering swaths of light were thrown across the fields between the trenches by the enemy’s Roman candle flares. One tried to estimate how many flares the Germans must use every night from Switzerland to the North Sea.