On August 5th the battalion left St. Michel at 9:00 A. M. in full marching order. We were going to occupy a trench sector for a practice tour. As you all know now, the trench systems of each side during the war were in triplicate, or maybe quadruplicate. There was the system actually being occupied against the enemy. A couple of miles back was another complete system, to be defended in case the first was taken; and, if time permitted, yet another behind this. We were to take over a sector of the G. H. Q., or second system, just behind Arras. While this was partly a regular item on our training schedule--the last one before actually going into the line--it was also contemplated that in case the Boche uncorked another drive on Arras, we should occupy this line and bar the road of the enemy should he break through, as he had done in the spring further north. After a long 12 mile hike up the Arras road, we turned off to the right, past a long train of British motor lorries, of which there seemed an inexhaustible supply. On through roads ever rougher and narrower we went, and halted at last in a clearing in a patch of woods. The officers went out to reconnoitre the sector and have their company sectors assigned, and the company stacked arms in the wet woods--it was raining, of course--and wondered if we’d get any chow. It was dark when we had had supper from our one lunged rolling kitchen and filed off to take up our position. “B” Co. was battalion support. The trenches were only dug about waist high; there were no dugouts or cubby holes to sleep in; not even a firing step to keep you out of the mud. We splashed and squatted through the pitchy blackness; no lights were allowed, of course. We reached our post finally, and settled down in the bottom of the trench in abject misery. The only lights were from the star shells that the Germans were sending up from their real lines, only a few kilos away; and the rumble of artillery fire there ahead reminded us that we were pretty close to the real thing. While I was making my final inspection, I saw a light come flashing down the communication trench towards us. This was against all orders, so I snarled out a peremptory command to put it out. The light didn’t pay any attention. This was the last straw; I thought that so long as we had to go through this performance it was going to be done right, with nobody privileged to cross their fingers and say they weren’t playing. I wallowed off in the direction of that flash light, wet through and getting pretty sore. I hailed it; I adopted a false, feigned politeness; I remarked that this was not puss in the corner, nor was I talking for my health, and if they couldn’t douse that glim I had a .45 that could. The light went out abruptly. I asked if he was simulating a steamboat on the Mississippi. I finally got quite near and demanded whoin’ell that was anyhow. And it was the Colonel. Yes, of course.