Then the men were prepared. They all wore aprons containing bombs; some had rifle and bayonet, some clubs, entrenching-tool handles with cog-wheels at the end—commonly called chloroform sticks—some bombs and revolvers. Every non-com. had a watch set to divisional time and an electric torch. Amid a good deal of merriment they blackened each other's faces—not for fun, but because white faces would be easily revealed under the white light of the German flares. Then the motor-lorries came up to take them into the sector, and with many cheerful wishes they drove away as jolly as though they were going to a party. A motor-ambulance followed with the regimental doctor, the chaplain, and the stretcher-bearers. Down the long communication trenches we followed them silently over the duck-boards, from which occasionally some would slip partially into the water draining below. The arrival at the front line is marked by a 'fading away' of the troops holding it. 'It's me for my dug-out,' I heard one man say. 'It ain't healthy with raiders about.' This is wise, because when the raid begins the Boches will rain shells on No Man's Land, and then put a barrage on or about the parapets to get them on the return. Now the raiders are sorted out and put round the three secret sally-ports through which each party will enter the 'verboten' land. The doctor inspects the special aid-posts to see if all arrangements are perfect. Yes, the bandages and doctor's kit are all laid out, and the A.M. Corps men at their posts, and I and the doc., with an A.M.C. sergeant, repair to the main aid-post to wait. It is three-quarters of an hour yet to zero time, but before that many of the raiders will be lying out in No Man's Land in holes and hollows. We try to read a bit, then talk, and all the time smoke. Smoking has a curious psychological effect. It steadies the nerves, makes you believe you are not perturbed, but there is no doubt that the time of waiting is always the worst. Every now and again we look at the watches. 'Quarter of an hour to go.' 'Yes,' says the doc. 'I expect some of them have crawled out now.' 'Ten minutes to go.' You throw down your book. It is no good pretending to read. For three days our gunners have been 'wire-cutting.' They have cut the wire over a very wide front, but they always take care to cut it where our men are going to attack. Zero time is 9 p.m., and exactly on the second hell breaks out. Guns in the rear roar out in fury. Trench mortars close at hand vomit forth their missiles of death, and even machine-guns and rifle batteries help to swell the crescendo of battle. The ranges are well known, and the guns do their work without harming our men, who are now crawling forward.