We feel good on such a morning.  We clean up a bit, for things are quiet—­that is, fairly quiet.  Only a few shells are flying, there is little or no rifle fire and nobody is getting killed, nobody is even getting plugged.

The whole long day passes quietly.  We are almost content with our lot.  We laugh a good deal, we joke, we play the eternal penny ante, and possibly the letters come.

Just before stand-to at sundown the quiet will be broken.  The artillery behind our lines will open up with great activity.  We notice that the big shells only are being used and we notice that they are concentrating entirely on the German front line, immediately ahead and to the right and left of where we have our position.  We are more than a little interested.  There is decidedly something in the wind.  We wait, but nothing happens.  We have stand-to and get our reliefs for guard.

Every man has his bayonet fixed for the night.  We give it a little extra polish.  It may be needed soon.  There is no outward show of nervousness.  No man speaks to his neighbor of his immediate thoughts.  We begin to smoke a little more rapidly, perhaps.  We might have had a cigarette an hour during the heavy shelling of the day.  During the night we will increase to one every half-hour, every twenty minutes.  We light a fag, take a few puffs and throw it away.  That is the only evidence of nerves.

We are in a state of complete ignorance as to what the outcome of this shelling may be.  We have seen it just as severe before and nothing but a skirmish result.  Some of us have seen shelling of the same intensity and have gone over the top and into a terrible melange.  We are always kept in ignorance; no commands and no orders are given.  Did we know for hours ahead that at such and such a time we would go over the top, our nerves could hardly stand the strain.  The noise, the terrific noise of our artillery bombarding the German trenches is hard enough on our nerves; what it must be on the nerves of the enemy is beyond conception.  We do not wonder that in these latter days they fall on their knees and yell “Kamerad!”

As a rule a charge takes place just before dawn, when the gray cold light of morning is struggling up from the East.  All night we are occupied according to our individual temperaments.  Some are able to sleep even in such a racket.  The great majority of us are writing letters.  There are always a few last things to be said to the home-folks, a few small possessions we want to will in special ways.  We hand our letters to an officer or to some special chum.  If this is to be our last time over—­if it is to be our last charge—­the officer or chum will see to it, if he lives, or the stretcher-bearers or the chaplains, if he doesn’t, that the small treasures go back home to the old folks.

Just before dawn there is a difference in the character of the shelling.  The heavy shells are falling farther back on German reserves and lighter artillery is being used on the enemy front line.  The position lies some three hundred yards from the enemy front.