"No ... goin' HOUT ... listenin'-post." And that private started out across
No Man's Land as nonchalantly as though he were strolling along his native
strand. I followed. I followed cautiously. I don't know how I got out. I
don't remember. I can't say that I was frightened ... no, I was just scared
stiff. Five paces out I put my hand on the Englishman's shoulder ... I was
quite close to him; don't doubt it. He stopped.

"How far is it to the German trenches?" I whispered.

"Eh?"

I raised my voice just a trifle. I didn't know who might hear me: "How far
is it to the German trenches?"

"Five 'undred yards." My companion started off again. He stepped on a
stick. I jumped. I jumped high. We continued, then I stopped him once more.

"Are we alone out here? Are there any Germans likely to be out too?"

"Why, yes ... plenty of 'em out here."

"Do they go in pairs, like us; or have they squads of them...."

"Pairs, my son, pairs, brace, couples...." The private strode on.

"Do our boys ever meet any of the Boches?"

"Sure! Many a time."

"What do we do?"