The space between the two front lines of barbed wire in this region
was not more than four or five hundred yards. In the murk of that
unstarred, drizzling night, where every inch must be felt out, it
seemed like a vast, horrible territory. There was nothing monotonous
about it but the blackness of darkness. To the touch it was a
_paysage accidente_, a landscape full of surprises. Dead bodies
were sprinkled over it. It was pockmarked with small shell-holes
and pitted with large craters, many of them full of water, all slimy
with mud. Phipps-Herrick nearly slipped into one of the deepest, but
a lively kick warned his followers of the danger, and they pulled
him back by the heels.

Now and then a star-shell looped across the spongy sky, casting a
lurid illumination over the ghastly field. When the three travellers
caught the soft swish of its ascent, they "froze"--motionless as
a shamming 'possum--mimicking death among the dead.

It was a long, slow, silent, revolting crawl. Sounds which did
not concern them were plenty--distant cannonade, shells exploding
here and there, scattered rifle-shots. All these they unconsciously
eliminated, listening for something else, ears pressed to the ground
wherever they could find a comparatively dry spot. From their
point of hearing the night was still as the grave--no subterranean
tapping and scraping could they hear anywhere under the sea of
mud.

Once Rosenlaube caught a faint metallic sound, and signalled
through Phipps-Herrick's left leg to Mitchell's left arm, "Stop!"
All three listened tensely. They crawled toward the faint noise.