And we, on our side of No Man’s Land, we wait also. We do not like the job in hand; we were not born to be butchers. We are very much the same as those chaps over there. If we could, we would prefer to live our lives out, shake hands with the enemy and go home to our families. We have no quarrel with them individually; but we have no means of telling them that. It seems stupid to have come so far, to have suffered such hardships, to have sat up so many weary nights, simply in order to do something for which four years ago we should have been hanged. But we can’t wriggle out of it. If we tried to break away, all along the roads of France armed men are stationed to turn us back. We are impotent to express any choice in the matter. Certain people have quarrelled—people who do not wear khaki and who will never face death at sunrise. Who they are and why they should have quarrelled, we do not properly understand. Probably they muddled themselves into this row; how they did it, they themselves could not tell us. They’re kings and statesmen and nobs—far too high up for us to criticise. All we know is that we are their sacrifice. Because they say it is right, the more men we kill at dawn, the more glory we shall earn. Later on, if we survive the war and kill only one man, they will tell us it is wrong, and we shall end on the scaffold. It’s all very puzzling—devilishly puzzling, when one’s brains and hands and feet are numbed with cold. It’s always perishing at three in the morning——-But these thoughts don’t do a chap any good; there’s nothing to be gained by philosophizing. It’s been going on for four years now—this living in mud and bathing in sweat, and always killing something God hasn’t spoken. He must know what he wants. \ At 3.45 a. m. the sergeants reported that all their fuzes were set. At four o’clock the whistle was blown for the “stand to” and the gun-crews crouched behind their guns in readiness. They needed to crouch, for the enemy shelling was finding us out and growing momentarily in intensity. Evidently more of their artillery was coming up and getting into action. From four o’clock onwards every five minutes the whistle blew and through the darkness a spectral voice announced: “Fifteen minutes to go”; “ten minutes to go”; “five minutes to go.” From far and wide behind the fog other whistles were heard sounding, and other voices making the same announcement. The last five minutes were counted off separately and the final minute in intervals of ten seconds: “Thirty seconds to go, twenty, ten, five.” Then, “Let her rip,” and a shrill blast of the whistle.