And the same with the horses.

THE LINE THAT NEVER SLEEPS

It is difficult to keep an edge after hours of fresh air and
experiences; so one does not get the most from the most
interesting part of the day--the dinner with the local
headquarters. Here the professionals meet--the Line, the
Gunners, the Intelligence with stupefying photo-plans of the
enemy's trenches; the Supply; the Staff, who collect and note
all things, and are very properly chaffed; and, be sure, the
Interpreter, who, by force of questioning prisoners, naturally
develops into a Sadducee. It is their little asides to each
other, the slang, and the half-words which, if one understood,
instead of blinking drowsily at one's plate, would give the
day's history in little. But tire and the difficulties of a
sister (not a foreign) tongue cloud everything, and one goes
to billets amid a murmur of voices, the rush of single cars
through the night, the passage of battalions, and behind it
all, the echo of the deep voices calling one to the other,
along the line that never sleeps.

. . . . . . .

The ridge with the scattered pines might have hidden children
at play. Certainly a horse would have been quite visible, but
there was no hint of guns, except a semaphore which announced
it was forbidden to pass that way, as the battery was firing.
The Boches must have looked for that battery, too. The ground
was pitted with shell holes of all calibres--some of them as