* * * * *

It is close on daybreak, and the customary whispered order runs down the stertorous trench:—­

“Stand to arms!”

Straightway the parapets are lined with armed men; the waterproof sheets which have been protecting the machine-guns from the dews of night are cast off; and we stand straining our eyes into the whitening darkness.

This is the favourite hour for attack.  At any moment the guns may open fire upon our parapet, or a solid wall of grey-clad figures rise from that strip of corn-land less than a hundred yards away, and descend upon us.  Well, we are ready for them.  Just by way of signalising the fact, there goes out a ragged volley of rifle fire, and a machine-gun rips off half a dozen bursts into the standing corn.  But apparently there is nothing doing this morning.  The day grows brighter, but there is no movement upon the part of Brother Bosche.

But—­what is that light haze hanging over the enemy’s trenches?  It is slight, almost impalpable, but it appears to be drifting towards us.  Can it be—?

Next moment every man is hurriedly pulling his gas helmet over his head, while Lieutenant Waddell beats a frenzied tocsin upon the instrument provided for the purpose—­to wit, an empty eighteen-pounder shell, which, suspended from a bayonet stuck into the parados (or back wall) of the trench, makes a most efficient alarm-gong.  The sound is repeated all along the trench, and in two minutes every man is in his place, cowled like a member of the Holy Inquisition, glaring through an eye-piece of mica, and firing madly into the approaching wall of vapour.

But the wall approaches very slowly—­in fact, it almost stands still—­and finally, as the rising sun disentangles itself from a pink horizon and climbs into the sky, it begins to disappear.  In half an hour nothing is left, and we take off our helmets, sniffing the morning air dubiously.  But all we smell is the old mixture—­corpses and chloride of lime.

The incident, however, was duly recorded by Major Kemp in his report of the day’s events, as follows:—­

4.7 A.M.—­Gas alarm, false.  Due either to morning mist, or the fact that enemy found breeze insufficient, and discontinued their attempt.

“Still, I’m not sure,” he continued, slapping his bald head with a bandana handkerchief, “that a whiff of chlorine or bromine wouldn’t do these trenches a considerable amount of good.  It would tone down some of the deceased a bit, and wipe out these infernal flies.  Waddell, if I give you a shilling, will you take it over to the German trenches and ask them to drop it into the meter?”

“I do not think, sir,” replied the literal Waddell, “that an English shilling would fit a German meter.  Probably a mark would be required, and I have only a franc.  Besides, sir, do you think that—­”

“Surgical operation at seven-thirty, sharp!” intimated the major to the medical officer, who entered the dug-out at that moment.  “For our friend here”—­indicating the bewildered Waddell.  “Sydney Smith’s prescription!  Now, what about breakfast?”