[Illustration: Officers of Lancers in their dug-outs in the front-line trenches] [Illustration: A dug-out in front of Zillebeke] Loop-holes covered with bits of sacking were marked by pieces of paper pinned above, warning occupants not to tarry in the line of German fire. By periscope we could see the Hun trenches, not many yards distant, and dozens of dead Germans lying between the two lines. The smoke from the enemy's cooking fires rose slowly in the damp atmosphere. At corners, cautions to "keep down" were posted. Snipers' bullets, heralded by a sharp bark and twanging musically, kept me down without much warning. A German sniper's position was pointed out to me, and I had some good rifle practice endeavouring to dislodge him, but with questionable success. The Hun riflemen had learned to lie very low in front of our troopers. We passed one of the 4th Dragoon Guards' marksmen, his eye along the barrel of his rifle as it lay in a loop-hole. As we came up he fired. "Got him?" asked Nicholson. "No," laconically answered the sharpshooter. "Got one this morning, though, sir. And I hope we are not shifted out of this for a day or so, as there are a couple more of the beggars I'll get if I'm given a bit of time." Seeing a trooper of the 9th Lancers whom I had known since the Great Retreat, I asked him how much longer his squadron was booked to be in the front trench. "Only twenty-four hours or so," was the reply. "But we could stick this sort of thing for a week and not kick. They're behavin' themselves much better as they go on," and he grinned as he nodded his head at the German trench. "They're learnin'." Now and then an enemy marksman sent a bullet through a loophole in front of us or behind us as we proceeded down the line, until we learned to pass these danger spots without loitering. Once we found it necessary to double back along a shallow trench a few yards behind the main parapet. The ditch we traversed was deep with cold water, which ran over the tops of my high boots. The damage to the trees was so extensive that shells might be said to have literally cleared away the forest in some localities. In spite of water in the trenches, the men were cheerily comfortable, many of them gathering around glowing brasiers or cuddling close to the wall of a cosy dug-out. An enforced detour nearly landed us in an impasse. We had taken the wrong turning. The trench parapet became lower, the trench narrower, and the cold water deeper. Pressed for time, we pushed on. At last Nicholson, who was leading, saw an angle of front line trench ahead, and ran for it. I followed. Bullets sang overhead as the Huns got a glimpse of us, but we ducked low and splashed through for dear life in record time.