“He says," the staff man went on," that it is
a very quiet day because of the constant rain."
Coming in, as I have said, I had noticed that no moment went by without shell explosions. As we talked we could hear the whining of shells overhead, and at intervals a number would shriek too close for comfort. You saw heads duck automatically. On such a quiet day we didn't want the captain to put himself out too much to do something for us. We asked what his plan was.
"He suggests," the staff man said, "that it might be possible to take you to a listening post in No-Man's Land—if you are not afraid. You are not afraid?"
To that formula which had grown well-worn we gave the customary reply. Moreover, it was an opportunity permitted to few civilians. So in a solemn file we followed him and the line captain past a dug-out, labelled, after the fashion of a summer cottage, “Villa de Venus." We climbed a flight of steps to the platform against the parapet where the sentinels stood.
"Of course," the staff man said, "if you go we can't promise there won't be a shell or a hand grenade."
We made indifferent gestures. We looked at each other suspiciously. There were no signals of retreat.
