This war is either so old-fashioned in its methods or so new-fashioned--in my opinion it is both--that it is continuously changing. The soldier may be drilled well in his own land, if he comes from overseas; he may be additionally trained in England; he may have a couple of weeks at the base in France, but it is all the same--when he reaches the front line trenches there will have been a change, an improvement, in some thing or other. It may be but a detail, it may be but a new name for an old familiar job, but changed it is. The best soldier in the fighting to-day is the type of man who can adapt himself to anything. He must have initiative; he must have resource; he must have individuality; he must be a distinct and complete unit in himself, ready for any emergency and any new undertaking. I started promptly to hike down the communication trench, following back the way we had come. An English private soldier was detailed to go on listening-post with me. Again, the raw soldier is never left to his own devices on first coming in. He is given the support of a veteran on all occasions, unless under some very special condition. "Hie!" called the private to me, "where're yer goin' to?" "Back, ye bally ass!" He looked his contempt. "'Ave yer b'ynet fixed?" he asked, by way of answer. "Bayonet fixed?" "Yes," said he, "'urry up! We're late." "Late?" I repeated. "For Gawd's syke," he exclaimed, "don't yer know as 'ow we are goin' hout? Goin' over to the German trenches--goin' hout!" [Illustration: (C)_Famous Players--Lasky Corporation. Scene from the Photo-Play_ THE END OF A PERFECT DAY.] [Illustration: Cheerful beggars] I gulped. "Going to make a charge?" "No ... goin' HOUT ... listenin'-post." And that private started out across No Man's Land as nonchalantly as though he were strolling along his native strand. I followed. I followed cautiously. I don't know how I got out. I don't remember. I can't say that I was frightened ... no, I was just scared stiff. Five paces out I put my hand on the Englishman's shoulder ... I was quite close to him; don't doubt it. He stopped. "How far is it to the German trenches?" I whispered. "Eh?" I raised my voice just a trifle. I didn't know who might hear me: "How far is it to the German trenches?" "Five 'undred yards." My companion started off again. He stepped on a stick. I jumped. I jumped high. We continued, then I stopped him once more. "Are we alone out here? Are there any Germans likely to be out too?" "Why, yes ... plenty of 'em out here." "Do they go in pairs, like us; or have they squads of them...." "Pairs, my son, pairs, brace, couples...." The private strode on. "Do our boys ever meet any of the Boches?" "Sure! Many a time." "What do we do?" "Do? Stick 'em, matey, stick 'em! You've learnt to use yer b'ynet, 'aven't yer? Well, stick 'em ... kill 'em! Don't use yer rifle ... the flash would give you away, and then ye'd be a corpse."