Yet, in this "taking over" there are many feelings concerned. For the
French _poilu_ and our Tommy it is mostly the occasion for as much
fraternisation as their fragmentary knowledge of each other's speech
allows; the Frenchman is proud to show his line, the Britisher is proud
to take it over; there are laughter and eager good will; on the whole,
it is a red-letter day. But sometimes there strikes in a note "too deep
for tears." Here is a fragment from an account of a "taking over,"
written by an eye-witness:

Trains of a prodigious length are crawling up a French railway. One
follows so closely upon another that the rear truck of the first is
rarely out of sight of the engine-driver of the second. These trains are
full of British soldiers. Most of them are going to the front for the
first time. They are seated everywhere, on the trucks, on the roof--legs
dangling over the edge--inside, and even over the buffers. Presently
they arrive at their goal. The men clamber out on to the siding, collect
their equipment and are ready for a march up country. A few children run
alongside them, shouting, "Anglais!" "Anglais!" And some of them take
the soldiers' hands and walk on with them until they are tired.

Now the trenches are reached, and the men break into single file. But
the occasion is not the usual one of taking over a few trenches. _We are
relieving some sixty miles of French line._ There is, however, no
confusion. The right men are sent to the right places, and everything is
done quietly. It is like a great tide sweeping in, and another sweeping
out. Sixty miles of trenches are gradually changing their nationality.

The German, a few yards over the way, knows quite well what is
happening. A few extra shells whizz by; a trench mortar or two splutter
a welcome; but it makes little difference to the weary German who mans