Other items of intelligence are gleaned.  The weather was ‘rotten’:  mud-caked garments corroborate this statement.  The wire, on the whole, was well and truly cut to pieces everywhere; though there were spots at which the enemy contrived to repair it.  Finally, ninety per cent. of the casualties during the assault were due to machine-gun fire.

But the fact most clearly elicited by casual conversation is this—­that the more closely you engage in a battle, the less you know about its progress.  This ship is full of officers and men who were in the thick of things for perhaps forty-eight hours on end, but who are quite likely to be utterly ignorant of what was going on round the next traverse in the trench which they had occupied.  The wounded Gunners are able to give them a good deal of information.  One F.O.O. saw the French advance.

“It was wonderful to see them go in,” he said.  “Our Batteries were on the extreme right of the British line, so we were actually touching the French left flank.  I had met hundreds of poilus back in billets, in cafes, and the like.  To look at them strolling down a village street in their baggy uniforms, with their hands in their pockets, laughing and chatting to the children, you would never have thought they were such tigers.  I remember one big fellow a few weeks ago, home on leave—­permission—­who used to frisk about with a big umbrella under his arm!  I suppose that was to keep the rain off his tin hat.  But when they went for Maricourt the other day, there weren’t many umbrellas about—­only bayonets!  I tell you, they were marvels!”

It would be interesting to hear the poilu on his Allies.

The first train moves off, and another takes its place.  The long lines of stretchers are thinning out now.  There are perhaps a hundred left.  They contain men of all units—­English, Scottish, and Irish.  There are Gunners, Sappers, and Infantry.  Here and there among them you may note bloodstained men in dirty grey uniforms—­men with dull, expressionless faces and closely cropped heads.  They are tended with exactly the same care as the others.  Where wounded men are concerned, the British Medical Service is strictly neutral.

A wounded Corporal of the R.A.M.C. turns his head and gazes thoughtfully at one of those grey men.

“You understand English, Fritz?” he enquires.

Apparently not.  Fritz continues to stare woodenly at the roof of the dock-shed.

“I should like to tell ’im a story, Jock,” says the Corporal to his other neighbour.  “My job is on a hospital train.  ’Alf-a-dozen ’Un aeroplanes made a raid behind our lines; and seeing a beautiful Red Cross train—­it was a new London and North Western train, chocolate and white, with red crosses as plain as could be—­well, they simply couldn’t resist such a target as that!  One of their machines swooped low down and dropped his bombs on us.  Luckily he only got the rear coach; but I happened to be in it!  D’ yer ’ear that, Fritz?”