This should give you an idea of the English and Turkish lines at a point where they are about eighty yards apart. Without going into details you will see the English trench is of the superior pattern, as it has traverses. I had to work in that technical term to show I know all about it; I know another, "the berm," but I am not too sure about what that is, and also I don't suppose I could draw a "berm" if I saw one. Anyway, I know it's quite a good term connected with trenches, as I heard a G.O.C. fairly strafe a subaltern, the other day, because he hadn't got a "berm." Well, to refer to the map, you will observe that there is an old ditch running between the two lines of trenches, and both sides have advanced a certain distance along this ditch and have built barricades about ten yards apart. Every day it is part of my job to take a constitutional along our trenches, and after discussing the European situation and the latest Budget with the various battalion commanders to ask them whether there is any particularly obnoxious part of the opposition line they would like me to salute with my battery. Usually they say, "No, there's nothing in particular, but let's have a shoot all the same; for example, there's a dog that barks abominably every night opposite L 57. Couldn't you abolish him?" Incidentally we no longer give our trenches names, such as Piccadilly, Rotten Row, but mere letters and numbers; the reason being that one of the staff was picked up in a fainting condition, having strolled down Park Lane and then found himself, to his horror, in Peckham High Street. The shock--his own home being in Baling Broadway--had proved too much for his constitution. However, to refer back to the map once more, our barricade across the ditch is a most convenient spot for observing artillery fire and as such is frequently used by me. Unfortunately my view was always hasty and badly interrupted by the attentions of a Turkish sniper behind their barricade. This man's name was Ibrahim, and he was a Constantinople cab-driver, married, with two children, both boys. You may be surprised that we know so much about the enemy, but we live in such close proximity that opposite the Lancashire Fusiliers a Turk named Mahomet, who lives at No. 3, Golden Horn Terrace, told the reporter of _The Worpington Headlight_ that for three years he had been suffering from pains in the back--but that's another story. Incidentally Mahomet at present inhabits a sniper's post surrounded by a perfect thicket of barbed-wire, and I had a bright scheme for its removal. I got hold of a trench catapult, an ingenious contrivance of elastic that hurls a bomb some hundreds of yards, and placed in it a harpoon attached to a long coil of rope. The idea was that on release of the catapult the harpoon would be hurled in the air, the rope would neatly pay out, and then, as soon as the harpoon had grappled Mahomet, all we would have to do would