a "dump" or food-station, whence carts filled from the heavy lorries go
actually up to the trenches, lines of artillery wagons, parks of
ammunition, or motor-ambulances, long lines of picketed horses,
motor-cyclists dashing past. In one village we saw a merry crowd in the
little _place_ gathered round a field-kitchen whence came an excellent
fragrance of good stew. A number of the men were wearing leeks in their
ears for St. David's Day. "You're Welsh, then?" I said to one of the cooks
(by this time we had left the motor and were walking). "I'm not!" said the
little fellow, with a laughing look. "It's St. Patrick's Day I'm waitin'
for! But I've no objection to givin' St. David a turn!"

He opened his kitchen to show me the good things going on, and as we moved
away there came up a marching platoon of men from the trenches, who had
done their allotted time there and were coming back to billets. The
General went to greet them. "Well, my boys, you could stick it all right?"
It was good to see the lightening on the tired faces, and to watch the
group disappear into the cheerful hubbub of the village.

We walked on, and outside the village I heard the guns for the first time.
We were now "actually in the battle," according to my companion, and a
shell was quite possible, though not probable. Again, I can't remember
that the fact made any impression upon us. We were watching now parties of
men at regular intervals sitting waiting in the fields beside the road,
with their rifles and kits on the grass near them. They were waiting for
the signal to move up toward the firing line as soon as the dusk was
further advanced. "We shall meet them later," said the General, "as we
come back."

At the same moment he turned to address a young artillery-officer in the
road: "Is your gun near here?" "Yes, sir, I was just going back to it." He