So many troops had to be assembled that it was necessary for the leading companies to be in position several hours before those that were to be the last to assemble. Further, to ensure that the assembly was completed up to time, orders were issued for the troops to be ready in their appointed positions one hour before zero. This allowed a good margin in which to make up for any delays which might be caused by gas-shelling or bombardments occurring during the advance to the assembly trenches. During this period a covering screen of troops, who were not detailed to take part in the first phase of the attack, lay out in No Man's Land to prevent German patrols from approaching our trenches and discovering that assembly for an attack was in progress. This period of waiting in assembly trenches for the hour of zero to arrive is one of the most unpleasant ordeals which a soldier has to endure. On this foggy November night the troops arrived with their kilts and hose-tops sodden with water and mud. The duck-boards in the assembly trenches were in many places under water. The fire-steps on which men sat, or the parapets and parados against which they leant huddled together for warmth, were exuding moisture and occasionally land-sliding into the trenches, bringing down in their fall a multitude of telephone wires, over which men stumbled and tripped for the remainder of the night. Rifles and Lewis guns needed the greatest care to prevent them from becoming clogged with mud and unserviceable. Silence was enforced and smoking forbidden, for fear that the arrival of a large force of men in the front line--a sure indication of an impending attack--might be disclosed to the enemy. Men were forbidden also to use their water-bottles before zero hour, partly because the need for water would become acute later during the battle, and partly on account of the noise which a half-emptied water-bottle is capable of producing, particularly when silence is most desired. During this anxious and seemingly endless vigil, the morale of even the boldest depreciates. The most unimaginative loon, particularly if it is not his maiden fight, knows that there are many men assembled with him who in an hour or two will see the dawn break for the last time. The stoutest-hearted cannot help reflecting on what his own fate is to be, and on the odds for or against his being hit; if hit, will the wound be a "cushy" one, or will he, in the next few hours, be transformed from an able-bodied soldier into a permanent cripple or a dead man? These are not pleasant reflections, particularly when the solace of speaking and smoking is denied.