Fitzgerald had seen very little of trench warfare. True, he had come out to France with his regiment in March of 1915 but then he got wounded on his first journey to the trenches and was sent back to England. He came out again in time to take part in the battle of Loos and got gassed in the charge. Followed a few weeks in the hospital at Versailles and then he was sent back to the trenches. He had seen a fortnight's trench warfare, done turns in listening patrol and sentry-go, before coming back with his battalion to Y---- Farm near the town of Cassel. So now, although first battalion man, he was in many ways a "rooky," one who was not as yet versed in the practices of modern warfare. Now, on the way back to his billet he thought of Jean Lacroix's story and a strange fit of nervousness laid hold of him. What might happen in the darkness he could not tell, and he wished that his mates had not gone leaving him to come back alone. They ought to have looked him up. He was annoyed with them. He was angry. The road stretched out in front a dull streak of grey, lined with ghostly poplars, that lost itself in the darkness ahead. The night was gloomy and chilly, a low weird wind crooned in the grass and a belated night-bird shrieked painfully in the sky above. Far out in front the carnage was in full swing, the red fury of war lit the line of battle and darts of flame, ghastly red, pierced the clouds in a hasty succession of short vicious stabs. Round Fitzgerald was the flat dead country, black and limitless, and over it from time to time swift flashes of light would rise and tremble in the gloom like will-o'-the-wisps over a churchyard. The sharp penetrating odour of dung was in the air, the night-breath of the low-lying land of Flanders. The shadows gathered round the man silently. One rushed in from the fields and took on an almost definite form on the roadway in front. He could not help gazing round from time to time and staring back along the road. What might be following! He was all alone, apart from his kind, isolated. One hand gripped tightly on his rifle and the fingers of the other fumbled at his bandolier. He ran his hand over the cartridges, counting them aloud. Fifty rounds. But he had none in the magazine of his rifle. He should have five there. But he would not put them in now. He would make too much noise.