And so on.  But one day, when the War is over, and this mighty trench-line is thrown open to the disciples of the excellent Mr. Cook—­as undoubtedly it will be—­care should be taken that these street-names are preserved and perpetuated.  It would be impossible to select a more characteristic and fitting memorial to the brave hearts who constructed them—­too many of whom are sleeping their last sleep within a few yards of their own cheerful handiwork.

III

After this digression we at length reach the firing-line.  It is quite unlike anything of its kind that we have hitherto encountered.  It is situated in what was once a thick wood.  Two fairly well-defined trenches run through the undergrowth, from which the sentries of either side have been keeping relentless watch upon one another, night and day, for many months.  The wood itself is a mere forest of poles:  hardly a branch, and not a twig, has been spared by the shrapnel.  In the no-man’s-land between the trenches the poles have been reduced to mere stumps a few inches high.

It is behind the firing-trench that the most unconventional scene presents itself.  Strictly speaking, there ought to be—­and generally is—­a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the first.  This should be occupied by all troops not required in the firing-trench.  But the trench is empty—­which is not altogether surprising, considering that it is half-full of water.  Its rightful occupants are scattered through the wood behind—­in dug-outs, in redoubts, or en plein air—­cooking, washing, or repairing their residences.  The whole scene suggests a gipsy encampment rather than a fortified post.  A hundred yards away, through the trees, you can plainly discern the Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that trench can discern you:  yet never a shot comes.  It is true that bullets are humming through the air and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due to the enterprise of distant machine-guns and rifle-batteries, firing from some position well adapted for enfilade.  Frontal fire there is little or none.  In the front-line trenches, at least, Brother Boche has had enough of it.  His motto now is, “Live and let live!” In fact, he frequently makes plaintive statements to that effect in the silence of night.

You might think, then, that life in Willow Grove would be a tranquil affair.  But if you look up among the few remaining branches of that tall tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice shreds of some material flapping in the breeze.  Those are sandbags—­or were.  Last night, within the space of one hour, seventy-three shells fell into this wood, and the first of them registered a direct hit upon the dug-out of which those sandbags formed part.  There were eight men in that dug-out.  The telephone-wires were broken in the first few minutes, and there was some delay before word could be transmitted back to Headquarters.  Then our big guns far in rear spoke