This life in the trenches levelled all distinctions, and revealed all that was good and bad. The skunk came forth in all his shady colours; the loyal and patient soul quickly won the affection of all. Discipline was difficult, especially when rain and frost gripped the flesh and bones. Cold feet in the first line of trenches is more demoralising than a thousand shells. Men object to being killed on a frosty morning. It is very uncomfortable, and certainly unromantic. They feel it better to die on the greensward with the sun lighting up the scene and the birds twittering out a grand amen. But war is never waged to suit the convenience of all. It is a battle for the fittest. The strong must survive and the weakest die. And war in the trenches is the most awful strain on officers and men. Perhaps it is worst for an officer. He suffers just the same hardships; worse, he has the anxiety of responsibility. Men seldom understand this. While they may sleep the officer has to be awake, ever watchful for the assault and ever jealous of the honour of his regiment and his name. Only men who have been thoroughly disciplined can stand such a strain. The amateur at this game is usually a nuisance, and better at home. The disadvantage of trench-fighting is that it robs even the best soldiers of their dash and initiative. Men who have been stuck in trenches for months get out of condition, and, at times, fail to seize opportunities to strengthen and consolidate their lines. Perhaps that was the reason for the deliberate progression of the Allied Army. Each week a certain forward movement had to be done, even if this only amounted to a few yards. Saps were made underneath the enemy’s barbed wire, explosions levelled these obstructions low, then with a rush our men would have a go to capture another of the German trenches. This work provided scope for all. Variety was frequently afforded in village fighting—the toughest job in war. The most interesting was a fight for a little house which commanded a short bridge and road over a Belgian canal. It was important to gain this point. Half a battalion of the Glesca Mileeshy, under Major Tartan, was ordered out to the job. The house itself was loopholed and sandbagged. There were two machine guns inside as well as fifty snipers. Outside there was a circular redoubt, manned by three hundred more. The whole place was thoroughly protected by barbed wire and other tricky lures. "It will cost us a lot of men, major," said Colonel Corkleg; "but the Brigadier says it must be done." "Yes, and we’ll do it, sir," replied Tartan, with a decision in his words which was inspiring. "Very well, Tartan, I leave it to you—you know your job." Tartan’s attack was preceded by a terrific bombardment by our artillery. But these shells did not dislodge the enemy. They stuck gamely to their job, and opened a fierce fusilade on the three skirmishing lines, which moved forward after the bombardment.