Towards the end of our last occupancy of trenches the local Olympus decided that what both sides required, in order to awaken them from their winter lethargy, or spring lassitude (or whatever it is that Olympus considers that we in the firing-line are suffering from for the moment), was a tonic.  Accordingly orders were issued for a Flying Matinee, or trench raid.  Each battalion in the Division was to submit a scheme, and the battalion whose scheme was adjudged the best was to be accorded the honour—­so said the Practical Joke Department—­of carrying out the scheme in person.  To the modified rapture of the Seventh Hairy Jocks their plan was awarded first prize.  Headquarters, after a little excusable recrimination on the subject of unnecessary zeal and misguided ambition, set to work to arrange rehearsals of our highly unpopular production.

Brother Boche has grown “wise” to Flying Matinees nowadays, and to score a real success you have to present him with something comparatively novel and unexpected.  However, our scheme had been carefully thought out; and, given sufficient preparation, and an adequate cast, there seemed no reason to doubt that the piece would have a highly successful run of one night.

At one point in the enemy’s trenches opposite to us his barbed-wire defences had worn very thin, and steps were taken by means of systematic machine-gun fire to prevent him repairing them.  This spot was selected for the raid.  A party of twenty-five was detailed.  It was to be led by Angus M’Lachlan, and was to slip over the parapet on a given moonless night, crawl across No Man’s Land to within striking distance of the German trench, and wait.  At a given moment the signal for attack would be given, and the wire demolished by a means which need not be specified here.  Thereupon the raiding party were to dash forward and—­to quote the Sergeant-Major—­“mix themselves up in it.”

Two elements are indispensable in a successful trench-raid—­surprise and despatch.  That is to say, you must deliver your raid when and where it is least expected, and then get home to bed before your victims have had time to set the machinery of retaliation in motion.  Steps were therefore taken, firstly, to divert the enemy’s attention as far as possible from the true objective of the raid, by a sudden and furious bombardment of a sector of trenches three hundred yards away; and secondly, to ensure as far as possible, that the raid, having commenced at 2 A.M., should conclude at 2.12, sharp.

In order to cover the retirement of the excursionists, Ayling was ordered to arrange for machine-gun fire, which should sweep the enemy’s parapet for some hundreds of yards upon either flank, and so encourage the enemy to keep his head down and mind his own business.

The raid itself was a brilliant success.  Dug-outs were bombed, emplacements destroyed, and a respectable bag of captives brought over.  But the element of surprise, upon which so much insistence was laid above, was visited upon both attackers and attacked.  To the former the contribution came from that well-meaning but somewhat addlepated warrior, Private Nigg, who formed one of the raiding party.