"You might explain something about it, if you will," suggested the Major. "Bombs and gas is your line, you know." The sub. beamed, and giving certain directions to his sergeant, spake something on this wise. "Well, 'Frightful Fritz'--I mean the Boches y'know, started bein' frightful some time ago, y'know--playin' their little tricks with gas an' tear-shells an' liquid fire an' that, and we left 'em to it. Y'see, it wasn't cricket--wasn't playin' the game--what! But Fritz kept at it and was happy as a bird, till one day we woke up an' started bein' frightful too, only when we did begin we were frightfuller than ever Fritz thought of bein'--yes, rather! Our gas is more deadly, our lachrymatory shells are more lachrymose an' our liquid fire's quite top-hole--won't go out till it burns out--rather not! So Frightful Fritz is licked at his own dirty game. I've tried his and I've tried ours, an' I know." Here the sergeant murmured deferentially into the sub.'s ear, whereupon he beamed again and nodded. "Everything's quite ready!" he announced, "so if you're on?" Here, after a momentary hesitation, I signified I was, whereupon our sub. grew immensely busy testing sundry ugly, grey flannel gas helmets, fitted with staring eyepieces of talc and with a hideous snout in front. Having duly fitted on these clumsy things and buttoned them well under our coat collars, having shown us how we must breathe out through the mouthpiece which acts as a kind of exhaust, our sub. donned his own headpiece, through which his cheery voice reached me in muffled tones: "You'll feel a kind of ticklin' feelin' in the throat at first, but that's all O.K.--only the chemical the flannel's saturated with. Now follow me, please, an' would you mind runnin', the rain's apt to weaken the solution. This way!" Dutifully we hasted after him, ploughing through the wet sand, until we came to a heavily timbered doorway that seemingly opened into the hillside, and, beyond this yawning doorway I saw a thick, greenish-yellow mist, a fog exactly the colour of strong absinthe; and then we were in it. K.'s tall figure grew blurred, indistinct, faded utterly away, and I was alone amid that awful, swirling vapour that held death in such agonising form. I will confess I was not happy, my throat was tickling provokingly, I began to cough and my windpipe felt too small. I hastened forward, but, even as I went, the light grew dimmer and the swirling fog more dense. I groped blindly, began to run, stumbled, and in that moment my hand came in contact with an unseen rope. On I went into gloom, into blackness, until I was presently aware of my companions in front and mightily glad of it. In a while, still following this invisible rope, we turned a corner, the fog grew less opaque, thinned away to a green mist, and we were out in the daylight again, and thankful was I to whip off my stifling helmet and feel the clean wind in my hair and the beat of rain upon my face.