my first sight of the awful destruction caused by German Kultur.

Marching down the main street we came to the heart of the village, and
took up quarters in shell-proof cellars (shell proof until hit by a
shell). Shells were constantly whistling over the village and bursting
in our rear, searching for our artillery.

These cellars were cold, damp, and smelly, and overrun with large rats
--big black fellows. Most of the Tommies slept with their overcoats
over their faces. I did not. In the middle of the night I woke up in
terror. The cold, clammy feet of a rat had passed over my face. I
immediately smothered myself in my overcoat, but could not sleep for
the rest of that night.

Next evening, we took over our sector of the line. In single file we
wended our way through a zigzag communication trench, six inches deep
with mud. This trench was called "Whiskey Street." On our way up to
the front line an occasional flare of bursting shrapnel would light up
the sky and we could hear the fragments slapping the ground above us
on our right and left. Then a Fritz would traverse back and forth with
his "typewriter" or machine gun. The bullets made a sharp cracking
noise overhead.

{Illustration: Diagram Showing Typical Front-Line and Communication
Trenches.}

The boy in front of me named Prentice crumpled up without a word. A
piece of shell had gone through his shrapnel-proof helmet. I felt sick
and weak.