grew into hundreds as the minutes passed and the darkness deepened. We felt
like the prophet Ezekiel as he viewed the valley of dry bones. There was
the shaking, there was the noise, and my imagination, at least, supplied
the miraculous warriors. It was an awful night, that first night in.

Any one knows that if frightened in the dark (we were not frightened, of
course; only a little nervous), the worst thing to do is to keep the eyes
on one spot. Then one begins to see things. It is not necessary to be a
soldier, and it is not necessary to go to the front line in France to make
sure of that statement. Stare ahead into the dark anywhere and something
will move.

We had our eyes set, and we peppered away. An English officer strolled by,
and addressed a fellow near me. "What the ... what the blinkety-blank are
you shooting at?"

"Me, sir ... m-me, sir? Germans, sir...." And he went on pumping bullets
from his old Ross. The officer smiled.

For myself, I was detailed for guard. I stood there on the firestep with my
body half exposed. I did not feel very comfortable. I thought if I could
get any other job to do, I would like it better. The longer I stayed, the
more certain I became that I would be killed that night. I did not want to
be killed. I thought it would be a dreadful thing to be killed the first
night in. A few bullets had come fairly close--within a yard or two of my
head. I determined there and then, should opportunity offer, I would not
stay on guard a minute longer than I could help.

My chance came sooner than I had hoped for. I hadn't realized, what I
discovered after a few more turns in the trenches, that guard duty is the