khaki--they are what remain of comrades who have sealed their love of
country with their blood. You observe others wandering aimlessly
about, suffering from shell-shock; or the gallant stretcher-bearers,
regardless of all danger, attending to the wounded and carrying them
back for treatment. The sight does not grieve or shock you--only
surprise is evinced by a change in facial expression. You just carry
on--the shock and grief will come later. You just grit your teeth and
take a fresh grip of your rifle and go forward with greater
determination to strike a blow in the cause of freedom and honour.
Maybe you reach your objective, your clothes sodden with sticky,
clammy mud and possibly the red of your own blood showing through.

The whole thing has been like some dream of adventure with wild
beasts; but there is firmly embedded in your consciousness the
knowledge that you have done the job. Other waves of men pass through
the line which you have wrested from the Hun; you cheer them as they
pass, and then dig in for all you are worth.

A few days later there appears in the daily papers, under the heading
of 'British Official,' that the troops penetrated the enemy's lines to
such and such a depth, and have bravely withstood several terrific
counter-attacks; and war correspondents will cable the news to our
waiting people of the Homeland that the 'boys' magnificently stormed
and won additional fame; but if you want it in the every-day language
of the man from 'down under,' he merely went 'over the top.'

After the rush there is no time for rest. The recovered ground must be
retained. New positions have to be consolidated, fresh gun positions
have to be constructed. The lines must be made habitable. The dead
have to be buried. The efficient and expeditious manner in which this