Again, at nights there are different kinds of raids to be carried out.  Probably a raid by wire cutters, or possibly an actual trench raid.  Nights in France are not meant for sleep.  There is usually one hour on duty and two hours off, and something doing all the while.

But the days frequently grow long and tiresome.  We sleep, we tell stories, we read when there is anything to read, and we write letters if we have the materials.  Or, above all, we work out some new device to spring upon the Boche.

In the early days of the war we knew nothing about hand grenades.  The Germans started to use them on us, but it was not a great while before we fell into line and produced bombs to match theirs.  At first we had the Tickler variety as previously described; since then we have used the “hair-brush” and others, but to-day we are using the standardized Mill hand grenade.

I can never forget the first bomb that was thrown from our trench.  Volunteers were asked for this new and risky job.  I will not mention the name of the boy who volunteered in our section, but he was a big, hefty, red-haired chap.  He has since been killed.  It is noticeable that red-haired fellows are impetuous and frequently ahead of others in bravery, for a moment or two, anyway.

That day there was an additional supply of mud and water in our trench.  We were dragging around in it until the bombing commenced, then we crowded like boys round the big fellow, who was close to the parapet, his chest stuck out, his voice vibrant with pride as he said, “Just you wait and see me blow those fellows to smithereens—­just you wait and see!”

In those days of makeshift bombs there was a nine-second fuse in each.  We were about thirty yards from the Germans’ trench.  Of course it would not take nine seconds for the bomb to travel thirty yards; rather would it arrive in three seconds, and give Hans and Fritz opportunity to pick it up comfortably and return it in time for its explosion to kill us and not them.  Thus the order was to count at least five—­one, two, three, four, five—­slowly and carefully, after the fuse was lighted and before the bomb left the hand.

Every one had his eyes glued to the periscope, except myself.  I watched the fuse in the hand of that red-haired guy.  He started to count—­one, two, and his hand began to shake; at three his hand was moving about violently; at four the bomb fell.  I wonder if there is any one in the world who thinks that we stopped there to see that bomb explode.  No, we didn’t.

There was a chance right there for the quick thinker, for the man of extraordinary initiative, to win the V.C.  Somehow our initiative took us in the other direction.  It is really wonderful how fast the average man can beat it when he knows there is certain death should he linger in one spot very long.  The way we traveled round the traverse and up the trenches was not slow.