We were glad to follow the brigade officer up
a path marked "Sniper's Avenue," which proved
to be a communication trench and led us out of the
reach of mines. I wonder if we hadn't all counted
the hours in the front line. We had, I know,
glanced at our watches more frequently than one
does at home. I wonder if every soldier who is
condemned to the trenches for days doesn't count
the hours, the minutes, until he can walk along a
communication trench away from the things that
keep him from fecling too much at case.
At a turning where the wall had been broken down a little by a shell we were greeted by two sharp reports like the snapping of a whip. We had an uncomfortable feeling of having been shot at, but surely the noise had been too close.
"Those were probably our snipers," the foreign office man said.
The brigade officer shook his head.
Huns, I think," he answered shortly. His freckled face lost its good humour. The puzzle concerned us all, but he would say nothing more.
We climbed a little reluctantly from the communication trench to a shell-torn road, but Williams looked over his shoulder.
They've pulled their sausage down."
The brigade officer glanced at his wrist watch, saying in a matter-of-fact tone:
