Can anyone realise fully the kind of life Belgian soldiers are leading, even now that the essential military works are completed? A division guarding a sector of the front invariably divides its time between duty in the trenches, outpost duty and rest. Rest! magic word! You would like to think that our men enjoy a blissful calm, long hours of pleasant freedom, lounging about all the day, almost forgetful of the war and its cruel chances. Alack! how far the reality falls short of this seductive vision! "Rest" means shelter in comfortless hutments or squalid cantonments, with a truss of straw to serve as bed. Fatigue duties are needed to prepare, load up and move the materials for all the works whose upkeep and completion demand constant care. Then there are the long route marches to keep the troops in perfect training, and drill in which military instruction is given and our men are taught the latest modes of fighting with a view to making future attacks. At night come alarms and enemy shells bombarding their quarters and poisoning them with asphyxiating gases. When on outpost duty in the second-line positions one must always be ready for a fight. When the German guns concentrate an intense fire upon certain sectors, one must wait stolidly and stoically in the shelters which a single shell can blow to atoms. Then, too, whenever the chance is offered, one must toil to restore defence works which are as constantly knocked to pieces again. With nightfall come the reliefs, a long and tiresome business, surrounded by deadly peril if the enemy be on his guard and puts up a barrage, searching the ground with sudden, furious bursts of machine-gun fire. In the trenches one has to keep a close and cautious lookout, always watching the enemy's lines, mind and body ever alert, while pitiless death prowls about and threatens at every point. At times, no doubt, the hours pass slowly with tiresome monotony. A heavy silence broods over this corner of the great battlefield wherein the Belgian soldiers, tramping along the bottom of the trenches or huddled in a dark shelter, dream at length of all that they have in tender memory, the affections, the hopes left behind them in the country now oppressed and tyrannised over by the invader. Their souls are full of bitterness, as with fixed stare they dumbly surrender themselves to their sad musings. A mad desire comes over them to clasp again to their breast, if only for a moment, some suffering dear one--whether still living or with eyes closed for ever in death, they do not know. So violent an access of home-sickness sweeps over them that at times they cannot restrain their tears. Then, suddenly, all heads are raised: eyes flash like points of steel. Let a shell whistle over the trenches and burst a few yards further on, and these men, who a moment ago were numbed by their gloomy broodings, become in a trice the fighters whose keenness awakes when danger threatens.