Four o’clock . . . a summer dawn . . . his first morning in the trenches.

Claude had just been along the line to see that the gun teams were in position. This hour, when the light was changing, was a favourite time for attack. He had come in late last night, and had everything to learn. Mounting the firestep, he peeped over the parapet between the sandbags, into the low, twisting mist. Just then he could see nothing but the wire entanglement, with birds hopping along the top wire, singing and chirping as they did on the wire fences at home. Clear and flute-like they sounded in the heavy air, — and they were the only sounds. A little breeze came up, slowly clearing the mist away. Streaks of green showed through the moving banks of vapour. The birds became more agitated. That dull stretch of grey and green was No Man’s Land. Those low, zigzag mounds, like giant molehills protected by wire hurdles, were the Hun trenches; five or six lines of them. He could easily follow the communication trenches without a glass. At one point their front line could not be more than eighty yards away, at another it must be all of three hundred. Here and there thin columns of smoke began to rise; the Hun was getting breakfast; everything was comfortable and natural. Behind the enemy’s position the country rose gradually for several miles, with ravines and little woods, where, according to his map, they had masked artillery. Back on the hills were ruined farmhouses and broken trees, but nowhere a living creature in sight. It was a dead, nerveless countryside, sunk in quiet and dejection. Yet everywhere the ground was full of men. Their own trenches, from the other side, must look quite as dead. Life was a secret, these days.

It was amazing how simply things could be done. His battalion had marched in quietly at midnight, and the line they came to relieve had set out as silently for the rear. It all took place in utter darkness. Just as B Company slid down an incline into the shallow rear trenches, the country was lit for a moment by two star shells, there was a rattling of machine guns, German Maxims, — a sporadic crackle that was not followed up. Filing along the communication trenches, they listened anxiously; artillery fire would have made it bad for the other men who were marching to the rear. But nothing happened. They had a quiet night, and this morning, here they were!

The sky flamed up saffron and silver. Claude looked at his watch, but he could not bear to go just yet. How long it took a Wheeler to get round to anything! Four years on the way; now that he was here, he would enjoy the scenery a bit, he guessed. He wished his mother could know how he felt this morning. But perhaps she did know. At any rate, she would not have him anywhere else. Five years ago, when he was sitting on the steps of the Denver State House and knew that nothing unexpected could ever happen to him . . . suppose he could have seen, in a flash, where he would be today? He cast a long look at the reddening, lengthening landscape, and dropped down on the duckboard.

Claude made his way back to the dugout into which he and Gerhardt had thrown their effects last night. The former occupants had left it clean. There were two bunks nailed against the side walls, — wooden frames with wire netting over them, covered with dry sandbags. Between the two bunks was a soap-box table, with a candle stuck in a green bottle, an alcohol stove, a bainmarie, and two tin cups. On the wall were coloured pictures from Jugend, taken out of some Hun trench.

He found Gerhardt still asleep on his bed, and shook him until he sat up.

“How long have you been out, Claude? Didn’t you sleep?”

“A little. I wasn’t very tired. I suppose we could heat shaving water on this stove; they’ve left us half a bottle of alcohol. It’s quite a comfortable little hole, isn’t it?”

“It will doubtless serve its purpose,” David remarked dryly. “So sensitive to any criticism of this war! Why, it’s not your affair; you’ve only just arrived.”

“I know,” Claude replied meekly, as he began to fold his blankets. “But it’s likely the only one I’ll ever be in, so I may as well take an interest.”

The next afternoon four young men, all more or less naked, were busy about a shell-hole full of opaque brown water. Sergeant Hicks and his chum, Dell Able, had hunted through half the blazing hot morning to find a hole not too scummy, conveniently, and even picturesquely situated, and had reported it to the Lieutenants. Captain Maxey, Hicks said, could send his own orderly to find his own shell-hole, and could take his bath in private. “He’d never wash himself with anybody else,” the Sergeant added. “Afraid of exposing his dignity!”

Bruger and Hammond, the two second Lieutenants, were already out of their bath, and reclined on what might almost be termed a grassy slope, examining various portions of their body with interest. They hadn’t had all their clothes off for some time, and four days of marching in hot weather made a man anxious to look at himself.

“You wait till winter,” Gerhardt told them. He was still splashing in the hole, up to his armpits in muddy water. “You won’t get a wash once in three months then. Some of the Tommies told me that when they got their first bath after Vimy, their skins peeled off like a snake’s. What are you doing with my trousers, Bruger?”

“Hunting for your knife. I dropped mine yesterday, when that shell exploded in the cut-off. I darned near dropped my old nut!”

“Shucks, that wasn’t anything. Don’t keep blowing about it — shows you’re a greenhorn.”

Claude stripped off his shirt and slid into the pool beside Gerhardt. “Gee, I hit something sharp down there! Why didn’t you fellows pull out the splinters?”

He shut his eyes, disappeared for a moment, and came up sputtering, throwing on the ground a round metal object, coated with rust and full of slime. “German helmet, isn’t it? Phew!” He wiped his face and looked about suspiciously.

“Phew is right!” Bruger turned the object over with a stick. “Why in hell didn’t you bring up the rest of him? You’ve spoiled my bath. I hope you enjoy it.”

Gerhardt scrambled up the side. “Get out, Wheeler! Look at that,” he pointed to big sleepy bubbles, bursting up through the thick water. “You’ve stirred up trouble, all right! Something’s going very bad down there.”

Claude got out after him, looking back at the activity in the water. “I don’t see how pulling out one helmet could stir the bottom up so. I should think the water would keep the smell down.”

“Ever study chemistry?” Bruger asked scornfully. “You just opened up a graveyard, and now we get the exhaust. If you swallowed any of that German cologne — Oh, you should worry!”

Lieutenant Hammond, still barelegged, with his shirt tied over his shoulders, was scratching in his notebook. Before they left he put up a placard on a split stick.

No Public Bathing!! Private Beach

C. Wheeler, Co. B. 2-th Inf’ty.

. . . . . . . . . .

The first letters from home! The supply wagons brought them up, and every man in the Company got something except Ed Drier, a farm-hand from the Nebraska sand hills, and Willy Katz, the tow-headed Austrian boy from the South Omaha packing-houses. Their comrades were sorry for them. Ed didn’t have any “folks” of his own, but he had expected letters all the same. Willy was sure his mother must have written. When the last ragged envelope was given out and he turned away empty-handed, he murmured, “She’s Bohunk, and she don’t write so good. I guess the address wasn’t plain, and some fellow in another comp’ny has got m............