same was a little sign reading, "Suicide Annex." One of the boys told
me that this particular front trench was called "Suicide Ditch." Later
on I learned that machine gunners and bombers are known as the
"Suicide Club."

That dugout was muddy. The men slept in mud, washed in mud, ate mud,
and dreamed mud. I had never before realized that so much discomfort
and misery could be contained in those three little letters, MUD. The
floor of the dugout was an inch deep in water. Outside it was raining
cats and dogs, and thin rivulets were trickling down the steps. From
the airshaft immediately above me came a drip, drip, drip. Suicide
Annex was a hole eight feet wide, ten feet long, and six feet high. It
was about twenty feet below the fire trench; at least there were
twenty steps leading down to it. These steps were cut into the earth,
but at that time were muddy and slippery. A man had to be very careful
or else he would "shoot the chutes." The air was foul, and you could
cut the smoke from Tommy's fags with a knife. It was cold. The walls
and roof were supported with heavy square-cut timbers, while the
entrance was strengthened with sandbags. Nails had been driven into
these timbers. On each nail hung a miscellaneous assortment of
equipment. The lighting arrangements were superb--one candle in a
reflector made from an ammunition tin. My teeth were chattering from
the cold, and the drip from the airshaft did not help matters much.
While I was sitting bemoaning my fate, and wishing for the fireside at
home, the fellow next to me, who was writing a letter, looked up and
innocently asked, "Say, Yank, how do you spell 'conflagration'?"

I looked at him in contempt, and answered that I did not know.

From the darkness in one of the corners came a thin, piping voice