Then at last the flare went out, and the blackness was intense. For a while longer we lay still as death; then I saw Will’s foot move again. I listened intently, and on my right I heard a metallic sound. Quite close it was; it sounded like the clank of a dixie. I peered hard in the direction of the sound. Faintly I could distinguish earth above the ground-line. I had not looked to my right when the flare went up, and realised, as Will already had done, that we were out as far as the end of the sap. It was perhaps ten yards off, due right. I lay with my ear cocked sideways to catch the faintest sound. Clearly there was someone in the sap. But there was a wind swishing in the grass, and I could not hear anything more. Then my tense attitude relaxed, and I gradually sank my chin on my arm. I felt very comfortable. I did not want to move.... “Bang!!” and then a flame spat out; then came that gritty metallic sound I had heard before, and another “Bang!” I kept my head down and waited for the next, but it did not come. Then I heard a most human scroopy cough, which also sounded _very_ near. The “bangs” were objectionably near; I literally shrank from them. To tell the truth, I had the “wind up” a bit. Those bullets seemed to me vicious personal spits that were distinctly unpleasant and near; and I wanted to get away from so close a proximity to them. I remembered a maxim of some famous General to the intent that if you are afraid of the enemy, the best thing was to remember that in all probability he was just as afraid of you. The maxim did not seem to apply somehow here. At the first “bang” I had thought we were seen; but I now realised that the sentry was merely blazing off occasional shots, and that the bullets had just plopped into our parapet. Then Will turned round, and I did the same. Our business was certainly ended, for there was no doubt about the sap being occupied. Then I heard a thud behind us, and looking up saw the slow climbing trail of a canister blazing up into the sky; up it mounted, up, up, up, hovered a moment, then turned, and with a gathering impetus blazed down somewhere well behind our front trench. “Trafalgar Square,” I thought, as I lay doggo, for the blaze lit up the sky somewhat. “Bomp.” The earth shook as the canister exploded. “Thud,” and the process was repeated exactly as before, ending in another quaking “Bomp!” I enjoyed this. It was rather a novel way of seeing canisters, and moreover a very safe way. Two more streamed over. Then our footballs answered, and burst with a bang in the air not so _very_ far over into the German lines. The trench-mortar fellow was evidently trying short fuses, for usually our trench-mortar shells burst on percussion. Then in the distance I heard four bangs, and the Boche 4·2’s started, screaming over at Maple Redoubt. I determined to move on.