“They are cutting the grass,” he says.  “Let ’em, by all means!  If they don’t, we must.  We don’t want their bomb-throwers crawling over here through a hay-field.  Let us encourage them by every means in our power.  It might almost be worth our while to send them a message.  Walk along the trench, Bobby, and see that no excitable person looses off at them.”

Bobby obeys; and peace still broods over the sleepy trench.  The only sound which breaks the summer stillness is the everlasting crack, crack! of the snipers’ rifles.  On an off-day like this the sniper is a very necessary person.  He serves to remind us that we are at war.  Concealed in his own particular eyrie, with his eyes for ever laid along his telescopic sight, he keeps ceaseless vigil over the ragged outline of the enemy’s trenches.  Wherever a head, or anything resembling a head, shows itself, he fires.  Were it not for his enthusiasm, both sides would be sitting in their shirt-sleeves upon their respective parapets, regarding one another with frank curiosity; and that would never do.  So the day wears on.

Suddenly, from far in our rear, comes a boom, then another.  Wagstaffe sighs resignedly.

“Why can’t they let well alone?” he complains.  “What’s the trouble now?”

“I expect it’s our Divisional Artillery having a little target practice,” says Captain Blaikie.  He peers into a neighbouring trench-periscope.  “Yes, they are shelling that farm behind the German second-line trench.  Making good shooting too, for beginners,” as a column of dust and smoke rises from behind the enemy’s lines.  “But brother Bosche will be very peevish about it.  We don’t usually fire at this time of the afternoon.  Yes, there is the haymaking party going home.  There will be a beastly noise for the next half-hour.  Pass the word along for every man to get into his dug-out.”

The warning comes none too soon.  In five minutes the incensed Hun is retaliating for the disturbance of his afternoon siesta.  A hail of bullets passes over our trench.  Shrapnel bursts overhead.  High-explosive shells rain upon and around the parapet.  One drops into the trench, and explodes, with surprisingly little effect. (Bobby Little found the head afterwards, and sent it home as a memento of his first encounter with reality.)

Our trench makes no reply.  There is no need.  This outburst heralds no grand assault.  It is a mere display of “frightfulness,” calculated to cow the impressionable Briton.  We sit close, and make tea.  Only the look-out men, crouching behind their periscopes and loopholes, keep their posts.  The wind is the wrong way for gas, and in any case we all have respirators.  Private M’Leary, the humorist of “A” Company, puts his on, and pretends to drink his tea through it.

Altogether, the British soldier appears sadly unappreciative either of “frightfulness” or practical chemistry.  He is a hopeless case.

The firing ceases as suddenly as it began.  Silence reigns again, broken only by a solitary shot from a trench-mortar—­a sort of explosive postscript to a half hour’s Hymn of Hate.