The full diapason is out, but, as always in war, the _vox humana_ is silent. There are little islands (traverses) in the communication trench, and suddenly emerging from the sap near one of these, I nearly bump into a sturdy machine-gunner I know well. He is a member of my Church, a sweet singer in my choir when he is at home. And this is the night for the choir practice, too. I see it now as in a vision. The choir is gathered round the great organ, and the conductor raps out his admonitions with the baton. They are practising one of my favourite anthems, 'Send out Thy Light.' 'You must duck your head here, padre; it is a bad place, and you are not supposed to loiter.' But I must wait. I am asking myself, 'Are these guns sending out the Light and Truth?' 'Yes, they are,' I say to myself. It is a quick mental process, but I am satisfied with the conclusion. We crouch down together and talk of the old church. He gives me more information, and I press on again. I am talking to myself, a bad sign, but the meeting and the memory has stirred up emotions not to be stilled. 'We must have two anthems next Sunday,' I say to the conductor as though he were present. 'First, "Send out Thy Light," and second, "The Radiant Morn."' I wonder if, after this fury, there will be a radiant morn for Europe; not one that has passed away. When wilt Thou save the people? O God of mercy, when? Not kings alone, but nations! Not thrones and crowns, but men! Flowers of Thy heart, O God, are they; Let them not pass like weeds away, Their heritage a sunless day. God save the people! A few more turns of the sap, and then I come to three trenches meeting, and it is a dangerous spot, for shells are dropping close. But the sentry, with bayonet fixed, is on guard. 'A hot place here.' 'Yes, padre, you can plop one any time here. I keep to the left side as much as possible under the bank.' 'You're wise; and what are you here for?' 'Men of the "Fifty-fifth" are to be directed down this sap to the front line, and men of the "Fifty-fourth" go down that, and by this you can find your way to the Battalion Head Quarters.' 'Eureka! I've found it. _Bon soir_,' and '_bonne chance_, sonny'; my present troubles are over. Arriving at the Battalion Head Quarters, I find it to be a farm-house, ruined beyond recognition as such. Kindly nature has covered it with a screen of verdure, rendering it almost invisible. The cook is there and his assistant. My kit has not come down to trolley-line yet, but the major, who has been 'in' some days, shows me my dug-out, a mere hole.