and could only turn sorrowfully away. He put it on immediately,
cheerfully accepting the substitute.

We were forced to make our adieux at this point, as there was no reason
for us to continue along the line. We promised to bring more things the
next night and start at the point where we had left off. I thought
regretfully it would be some days before my turn came round again.

The same care had to be observed on the return journey, and we could
only speak in the softest of whispers. The bombardment had now died away
as suddenly as it had begun. The men turned from their posts to whisper
"_Bon soir, bonne chance_," or else "_Dieu vous bénisse_." The silence
after that ear-splitting din was positively uncanny: it made one feel
one wanted to shout or whistle, or do something wild; anything to break
it. One almost wished the Germans would retaliate! That silent monster
only such a little way from us seemed just waiting to spring. We crawled
one by one out of the trenches on to the road, and began the perilous
journey homewards with the _blessés_, knowing that at any moment the
Germans might begin bombarding. As we were resting the Captain of the
battery joined us, and in the semi-darkness I saw he was offering me a
bunch of snowdrops! It certainly was an odd moment to receive a bouquet,
but somehow at the time it did not seem to be particularly out of place,
and I tucked them into the belt of my tunic and treasured them for days
afterwards--snowdrops that had flowered regardless of war in the garden
of some cottage long since destroyed.

Arrived once more at Headquarters we were pressed to a _petit verre_ of
some very hot and raw liqueur, but nevertheless very warming, and very
good. I felt I agreed with the Irish coachman who at his first taste
declared "The shtuff was made in Hiven but the Divil himself invinted