"That's our line," he said, "great salients and small ones.
Little fellows like this breed local trouble. Only comfort is, it's as bad for the Huns
as it is for us."
He drew from his pocket a narrow cylinder, not unlike a small telescope.
"It's a hand periscope," he explained," rather useful thing—magnifies a bit. Want to try it? Put the end over the parapet and squint in the eye hole. That's the notion."
The ugly yellow ridges seemed closer. The waving grass was more distinct and larger. There was no use looking too carefully because of the sinister souvenirs of night attacks and patrol work the grass in No-Man's Land nearly always harbours.
But the ridges fascinated. They were like furrows ploughed by a drunken giant. They offered no evidence of the multitude of men they sheltered; yet, if it hadn't been for the gun rear, we might have called across to them without raising our voices particularly. We could picture a routine within their hollows similar to our own. But at any moment a trivial variation over there might send death stalking close to us—
“How far are they?" I asked.
“Something less than a hundred yards, I should say, from here to their front line."
