Our officer, speaking in a low voice, gave instructions.  “The enemy is advancing to attack us in great force,” he explained, “and our scouts have located him some six miles away from here.  We have now found that it is inadvisable to march on any farther, as our reinforcements are not very strong and have been delayed to rear.  Therefore we have decided to take up our present position as a suitable ground for operations and entrenching ourselves in—­ready to give battle.  Everything now must be done very quickly.  Our lives will, perhaps, depend at some early date on the quickness with which we can hide ourselves from the foe.  So; dig your trench as quickly as possible, as quickly, in fact, as if your life depended on it.  Work must be done in absolute silence; no smoking is allowed, no lighting of matches, no talk.

“A word about orders.  Commands are not to be shouted, but will be passed along from man to man, and none must speak above his breath.  The passing of messages along in this manner is very difficult; words get lost, and unnecessary words are added in transit.  But I hope you’ll make a success of the job.  Now we’ll see how quickly we can get hidden!”

A “screen” of scouts (one man to every fifty yards of frontage) took up its place in line a furlong ahead.  A hundred paces to rear of the “screen” the officers marked out the position of the trenches, placing soldiers as markers on the imaginary alignment.  In front lay a clear field of fire, a deadly area for an enemy advancing to the attack.

We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which we always carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay.  The night was close and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening spring verdure filled our nostrils.  In the distance was heard the rumbling of trains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking of dogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song of a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows.

In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and several units of the party took off their tunics.  One hapless individual got into trouble immediately.  His shirt was not regulation colour, it was spotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards.  A whispered order from the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers.

“Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!”

The order was obeyed in haste, the white disappeared rapidly as the arms of the culprit slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid his wrong from the eyes of man.

The night wore on.  Now and again a clock in the town struck out the time with a dull, weary clang that died away in the darkness.  On both sides I could see stretching out, like some gigantic and knotted rope, the row of bent workers, the voiceless toilers, busy with their labours.  Picks rose into the air, remained poised a moment, then sank to tear the sluggish earth and pull it apart.