The thought made him smile, and he felt a light glow pass over his face.  He knew it was due to the belief that he would see Julie once more, and yet the trenches now extended about four hundred miles across Northern France and Belgium.  The chances seemed a hundred to one against her arrival in the particular trench, honored by the presence of the Strangers, but John felt that in reality they were a hundred to one in favor of it.  He wished it so earnestly that it must come true.

“You’re smiling, Scott,” said Carstairs.  “A good honest English penny for your thoughts.”

“What do I care for money?  What could I do with it if I had it, held here between walls of mud only four feet apart?”

“At least,” interrupted Wharton, “the high cost of living is not troubling us.  Next month’s rent may come from where it pleases.  It doesn’t bother me.”

A messenger turned the angle of the trench and summoned John to the presence of his commander, Captain Colton, who was about three hundred yards away.  Young Scott, stooping in order to keep his head covered well, started down the trench.  The artillery fire was at its height.  The waves of air followed one another with great violence, and the fumes of picric acid and of other acids that he did not know became very strong.  But he scarcely noticed it.  The bombardment was all in the day’s work, and when the Germans ceased, the French, after a decent interval, would begin their own cannonade, carried on at equal length.

John thought little of the fire of the guns, now almost a regular affair like the striking of a clock, but force of habit kept his head down and no German sharpshooter watching in the trench opposite had a chance at him.  He advanced through a vast burrow.  Trenches ran parallel, and other trenches cut across them.  One could wander through them for miles.  Most of them were uncovered, but others had roofs, partial or complete, of thatch or boards or canvas.  Many had little alcoves and shelves, dug out by the patient hands of the soldiers, and these niches contained their most precious belongings.

Back of the trenches often lay great heaps of refuse like the kitchen middens of primeval man.  Attempts at coziness had achieved a little success in some places, but nearly everywhere the abode of burrowing soldiers was raw, rank and fetid.  Heavy and hideous odors arose from the four hundred miles of unwashed armies.  Men lived amid disease, dirt and death.  Civilization built up slowly through painful centuries had come to a sudden stop, and once more they were savages in caves seeking to destroy one another.

This, at least, was the external aspect of it, but the flower of civilization was still sound at the stem.  When the storm was over it would grow and bloom again amid the wreckage.  French and Germans, in the intervals of battle, were often friendly with each other.  They listened to the songs of the foe, and sometimes at night they talked together.  John recognized the feeling.  He knew that man at the core had not really returned to a savage state, and a soldier, but not a believer in war, he looked forward to the time when the grass should grow again over the vast maze of trenches.