We stopped to read by the light of a brazier some German soldiers’ diaries that the Irishmen had.  They were cheap little books, bought for a few cents, each one telling the dead man’s story and revealing the monotony of a soldier’s existence in Europe to-day.  These pawns of war had been marched here and there, they never knew why.  The last notes were when orders came entraining them.  They did not know that they were to be sent out of those woods yonder to recover Neuve Chapelle out of those woods in the test of all their drill and waiting.  A Bavarian officer—­for these were Bavarians—­actually rode in that charge.  He must have worked himself up to a strangely exalted optimism and contempt of British fire.  Or was it that he, too, did not know what he was going against? that only the German general knew?  Neither he nor his horse lasted long; not more than a dozen seconds.  The thing was so splendidly foolhardy that in some little war it might have become the saga of a regiment, the subject of ballads and paintings.  In this war it was an incident heralded for a day in one command and forgotten the next.

“Good-night!” called the Irish.

“Good-night and good luck!”

“Tell them in America that the Irish are still fighting!”

“Good luck, and may your travelling be aisy; but if ye trip, may ye fall into a gold mine!”

We were back with the British regulars; and here, also, many of the men remained up around the braziers.

The hours of duty of the few on watch do not take many of the twenty-four hours.  One may sleep when he chooses in the little houses behind the breastworks.  Night melts into day and day into night in the monotony of mud and sniping rifle-fire.  By-and-by it is your turn to go into reserve; your turn to get out of your clothes—­for there are no pyjamas for officers or men in these “crawls,” as they are sometimes called.  Boots off is the only undressing; boots off and puttees unloosed, which saves the feet.  Yes, by-and-by the march back to the rear, where there are tubs filled with hot water and an outfit of clean clothes awaiting you, and nothing to do but rest and sleep.

“How soon after we leave the trenches may we cheer?” officers have been asked in the dead of winter, when water stood deep over the porous mud and morning found a scale of ice around the legs.

You, nicely testing the temperature of your morning tub; you, satisfied only with faucets of hot and cold water and a mat to stand on—­you know nothing about the joy of bathing.  Your bath is a mere part of the daily routine of existence.  Try the trenches and get itchy with vermin; then you will know that heaven consists of soap and hot water.

No bad odour assails your nostrils wherever you may go in the British lines.  Its cleanliness, if nothing else, would make British army comradeship enjoyable.  My wonder never ceases how Tommy keeps himself so neat; how he manages to shave every day and get a part, at least, of the mud off his uniform.  This care makes him feel more as if he were “at home” in barracks.