never be seen. During a heavy bombardment he works in conjunction with
another observation officer. They are hidden away in any old place; it may
be a ruined chimney, it may be a tree which is still left standing, or it
may be in some hastily built up haystack. He controls the entire artillery
in action on his special front, and he holds the lives of thousands of men
in the hollow of his hand. One tiniest miscalculation and hundreds of us
pay the price.

He is cool, imperturbable, calculating, ready in any emergency,
good-tempered, deliberate and yet with the power to act instantly. At times
he has command over a magnificent number of invectives!

As the minutes pass and the day lightens we smoke a fag every five minutes,
every three minutes. The trench is filled with the blue gray smoke of
thousands of cigarettes, lighted, puffed once, thrown away. It soothes our
nerves. It gives us something to do with our hands. It takes our mind off
the impending clash.

If we make an attack in broad daylight, which is seldom done except under a
special emergency, the only command to charge will be the click, click,
click of bayonets going into place all along the line. But charges are
mostly made at gray-dawn, when bayonets are already fixed. Suddenly, away
down the line we catch sight of one of our men climbing over the parapet.
Then trench ladders are fixed, and in a twinkling every man of us is over
the top with: "The best o' luck--and give 'em hell!"

We crawl out over the open. We reach our own barbed wire entanglements. We
creep through them, round them, and out to No Man's Land. We are in it now
for good and all.