In fact he was so keen that another raid that was attempted ten days later failed completely because of a rapidly concentrated and heavy machine-gun fire, and in another, a day or two later, our men never got beyond our own wire and had thirty-eight casualties out of fifty men engaged.

But so far as anything but defensive work was concerned, Fritz was very meek.  He sent over very few “minnies” or rifle grenades, and there was hardly any shelling of the sector.

Directly after the raid, we who were in the party had a couple of days “on our own” at the little village of Bully-Grenay, less than three miles behind the lines.  This is directly opposite Lens, the better known town which figures so often in the dispatches.

Bully-Grenay had been a place of perhaps one thousand people.  It had been fought over and through and around early in the war, and was pretty well battered up.  There were a few houses left unhit and the town hall and several shops.  The rest of the place was ruins, but about two hundred of the inhabitants still stuck to their old homes.  For some reason the Germans did not shell Bully-Grenay, that is, not often.  Once in a while they would lob one in just to let the people know they were not forgotten.

There was a suspicion that there were spies in the town and that that accounted for the Germans laying off, but whatever was the cause the place was safer than most villages so near the lines.

Those two days in repose at Bully-Grenay were a good deal of a farce.  We were entirely “on our own”, it is true, no parade, no duty of any kind—­but the quarters—­oof!  We were billeted in the cellars of the battered-down houses.  They weren’t shell-proof.  That didn’t matter much, as there wasn’t any shelling, but there might have been.  The cellars were dangerous enough without, what with tottering walls and overhanging chunks of masonry.

Moreover they were a long way from waterproof.  Imagine trying to find a place to sleep in an old ruin half full of rainwater.  The dry places were piled up with brick and mortar, but we managed to clean up some half-sheltered spots for “kip” and we lived through it.

The worst feature of these billets was the rats.  They were the biggest I ever saw, great, filthy, evil-smelling, grayish-red fellows, as big as a good-sized cat.  They would hop out of the walls and scuttle across your face with their wet, cold feet, and it was enough to drive you insane.  One chap in our party had a natural horror of rats, and he nearly went crazy.  We had to “kip” with our greatcoats pulled up over our heads, and then the beggars would go down and nibble at our boots.

The first day somebody found a fox terrier, evidently lost and probably the pet of some officer.  We weren’t allowed to carry mascots, although we had a kitten that we smuggled along for a long time.  This terrier was a well-bred little fellow, and we grabbed him.  We spent a good part of both mornings digging out rats for him and staged some of the grandest fights ever.