Or perhaps it is only necessary for the observing officer to be at his post during the hours of daylight, which involves a pleasant walk an hour before sunrise and another an hour after sunset, both times at which the approaches to the O.P. are being shelled, or swept by a machine gun, or at all events are receiving some sort of attention from the enemy, who appear to take a kindly interest in one's movements. Still, this system secures one a night in bed, which is a luxury by no means to be despised, and one is rewarded for one's early rising and walk by the prospect from the observation post during what is often the clearest part of the day, just before and after sunrise. There, right in front, are the two lines of trenches, seemingly deserted, except where a faint curl of blue smoke denotes preparation for breakfast. Over the whole space of country before one there is no sign of life or movement, unless perhaps at some point from a communication trench a spade-full of earth rises regularly. In the middle distance over a cross-roads a succession of white puffs shows the suspicious nature of one of our field batteries, but further back still smoke rises from a tall chimney as though the world knew of no war. The aeroplanes are up, of course, each cruising about in the centre of a constellation of greyish wisps of shrapnel, like flashes of cotton-wool against the greenish blue of the sky. Rifles crack startlingly near at hand. The drone of spent bullets rises and falls, the distant sound of guns blends with the bursting of the shrapnel far overhead and the hum of the aeroplanes. Surely all this noise is of another world, it cannot have any relation to the peaceful scene before our eyes? The treachery of the quicksand is the calm serenity of this Forbidden Land. Observation posts have each their own legend, which clings to them through successive tenancies. We shared one once with a very youthful officer whose nervousness was only excelled by his ignorance. I fancy myself that he was only there to keep a claim on the place for his battery, but it so happened one fatal afternoon that he had to observe a series. The first round was fired, and the young man, suddenly discovering that observation of fire is one of the most difficult things in the world, and being utterly at sea as to where the shot had fallen, hesitated in his report. The rest of the tale is best told by the telephone. The battery commander is the first speaker. "Ask the observing officer to report where that round fell." "Mr. Jones reports that was a very good shot, sir." "Tell Mr. Jones I don't want criticism of my shooting, I want to know where the rounds fall. No. 2 is just firing." "Mr. Jones reports the last round fell about an inch from the target." "Then I can assume that as a hit?" "Mr. Jones says he means an inch on the map, not an inch on the ground." Threatenings and slaughter _ad lib_!