There was nothing dry in that trench, unless it was the bowl of a man’s pipe.  There were not even any braziers.  In your nostrils was the odour of the soil of Flanders cultivated by many generations through many wars.  As night wore on the sky was brightened by cold, winter stars and their soft light became noticeable between the disagreeable flashes of the flares.

We walked on and on.  It was like walking in a winding ditch; that was all.  The same kind of walls at every turn; the same kind of dim figures in saturated, heavy army overcoats.  Slipping off the board walk into the ooze, one was thrown against the mud wall as his foot sank.  Then he held fast to his boot-straps lest the boot remain in the mud while his foot came out.  Only the co. never slipped.  He knew how to tour trenches.  Beside him the others were as clumsy as if they were trying to walk a tight-rope.

“Good-night!” he said to each group of men as he passed, with the cheer of one who brings a confident spirit to vigils in the mud and with that note of affection of the commander who has learned to love his men by the token of ordeals when he saw them hold fast against odds.

“Good-night, sir!” they answered; and in their tone was something which you liked to hear—­a finer tribute to the co. than medals which kings can bestow.  It was affection and trust.  They were ready to follow him, for they knew that he knew how to lead.  I was not surprised when I heard of his promotion, later.  I shall not be surprised when I hear of it again.  For he had brain and heart and the gift of command.

“Shall we go on or shall we go back?” he asked when we had gone about a mile.  “Have you had enough?”

We had, without a dissenting voice.  A ditch in the mud, that was all, no matter how much farther we went.  So we passed out of the trench into a soapy, slippery mud which had been ploughed ground in the autumn, now become lathery with the beat of men’s steps.  Our party became separated when some foundered and tried to hoist themselves with both boot-straps at once.  The co. called out in order to locate us in the darkness, and the voice of an officer in the trenches cut in, “Keep still!  The Germans are only a hundred yards away!”

“Sorry!” whispered the co.  “I ought to have known better.”

Then one of the German searchlights that had been swinging its stream of light across the paths of the flares lay its fierce, comet eye on us, glistening on the froth-streaked mud and showing each mud-splashed figure in heavy coat in weird silhouette.

“Standstill!”

That is the order whenever the searchlights come spying in your direction.  So we stood still in the mud, looking at one another and wondering.  It was the one tense second of the night, which lifted our thoughts out of the mud with the elation of risk.  That searchlight was the eye of death looking for a target.  With the first crack of a bullet we should have known that we were discovered and that it was no longer good tactics to stand still.  We should have dropped on all fours into the porridge.  The searchlight swept on.  Perhaps Hans at the machine-gun was nodding or perhaps he did not think us worth while.  Either supposition was equally agreeable to us.