At midday they arrived there.  That is to say, they waded up to a collection of little tents, not unlike bushmen’s tents in Australia, and stood knee deep at the entrances, looking into them—­speechless.  They were not much by way of tents at the best of times.  There was nearly as much mud inside as there was outside.  But on top of the normal conditions came the fact that the last battalion to occupy those tents must have camped there in dry weather.  Since there was not enough headroom upwards it had dug downwards.  And, as it had not put a drain round them, the water had come in, and the interior of a fair proportion of these residences consisted of a circular lake, varying in depth from a few inches to a foot and a half.

The battalion could only find one word, when its breath came—­and, as the regiment which had made those holes, and the town major to whom they now belonged, were probably of unimpeachable ancestry, I do not think the accusation was justified.  But when it realised that, good or bad, this was the place where it was to pass the night, it split itself up, as good Australian battalions have a way of doing.

“Which is the way to our tents, Bill?” asked the rear platoon of one of the band, which had arrived half an hour before.

“I don’t know—­I’m not the blanky harbour-master,” was the reply.  The battalion set to work, like a tribe of beavers, to make a home.  It banked up little parapets of mud to prevent water coming in.  It dug capacious drains to let the water which was in run out.  It scraped the mud out of the interior of its lake dwellings, until it reached more or less dry earth.  A fair proportion of the regiment melted out into the landscape, and returned during the rest of the day by ones and twos, carrying odd bits of timber, broken wood, bricks, fag ends of rusty sheet iron, old posts, wire and straw.  By nightfall those Australians were, I will not say in comfort, but moderately and passably warm and dry.

It so happened that they stayed in that camp four days.  By the time they left it they were looking upon themselves as almost fortunate.  There was only one break in its improvement—­and that was when a dug-out was discovered.  It was a charming underground home, dug by some French battery before the British came—­with bunks and a table and stove.  The privates who discovered it made a most comfortable home until its fame got abroad, and the regimental headquarters were moved in there.  Dug-outs became all the fashion for the moment—­everyone set about searching for them.  But the supply in any works on the Allied side is, unfortunately, limited—­and after half a day’s enthusiasm the battalion fell back resignedly on its canvas home.

When it came back some time later to these familiar dwellings, heavy-eyed and heavy-footed, there was no insincerity in the relief with which it regarded them.  They were a resting-place then.  Another battalion had kept them decently clean, and handed them over drained and dry; for which thoughtfulness, not always met with, they were more grateful than those tired men could have explained.