We cross a meadow and enter a trench. Here and there it comes to the
surface again where there is dead ground. At one such point an old
church stands, with an unexploded shell sticking out of the wall. A
century hence folk will journey to see that shell. Then on again
through an endless cutting. It is slippery clay below. I have no nails
in my boots, an iron pot on my head, and the sun above me. I will
remember that walk. Ten telephone wires run down the side. Here and
there large thistles and other plants grow from the clay walls, so
immobile have been our lines. Occasionally there are patches of
untidiness. 'Shells,' says the officer laconically. There is a racket
of guns before us and behind, especially behind, but danger seems
remote with all these Bairnfather groups of cheerful Tommies at work
around us. I pass one group of grimy, tattered boys. A glance at their
shoulders shows me that they are of a public school battalion. 'I
thought you fellows were all officers now,' I remarked. 'No, sir, we
like it better so.' 'Well, it will be a great memory for you. We are
all in your debt.'

They salute, and we squeeze past them. They had the fresh, brown faces
of boy cricketers. But their comrades were men of a different type,
with hard, strong, rugged features, and the eyes of men who have seen
strange sights. These are veterans, men of Mons, and their young pals
of the public schools have something to live up to.

* * * * *

Up to this we have only had two clay walls to look at. But now our
interminable and tropical walk is lightened by the sight of a British
aeroplane sailing overhead. Numerous shrapnel bursts are all round it,