across the
top of the pile. Of course, you did not wear a white hat or wave a
handkerchief. One does not do that when he plays hide-and-seek.

Or, if you preferred, you might look into a chip of glass, with your
head wholly screened by the wall of sandbags, which got a reflection
from another chip of glass above the parapet. This is the trench
periscope; the principle of all of them is the same. They have no more
variety than the fashion in knives, forks and spoons on the dinner
table.

One hundred and fifty yards away across a dead field was another
wall of sandbags. The distance is important. It is always stated in all
descriptions. One hundred and fifty yards is not much. Only when you
get within forty or fifty yards have you something to brag about. Yet
three hundred yards may be more dangerous than fifteen, if an
artillery "hate" is on.

Look for an hour, and all you see is the wall of sandbags. Not even a
rabbit runs across that dead space. The situation gets its power of
suggestion from the fact that there are Germans behind the other
wall--real, live Germans. They are trying to kill the British on our side
and we are trying to kill them; and they are as coyly unaccommodating
about putting up their heads as we are. The emotion of the situation
is in the fact that a sharpshooter might send a shot at your cap; he
might smash a periscope; a shell might come. A rifle cracks--that is
all. Nearly everyone has heard the sound, which is no different at the
front than elsewhere. And the sound is the only information you get.
It is not so interesting as shooting at a deer, for you can tell whether
you hit him or not. The man who fires from a trench is not even certain
whether he saw a German or not. He shot at some shadow or object
along the crest which might have been a German head.

Thus, one must take the word of those present that there is any more
life behind than in front of the sandbags. However, if you are sceptical
you may have conviction by starting to crawl over the top of the
British parapet. After dark the soldiers will slip over and bring back
your body. It is this something you do not see, this something
visualized by the imagination, which convinces you that you ought to
be considerate enough of posterity to write the real description of a
trench. Look for an hour at that wall of sandbags and your
imagination sees more and more, while your eye sees only
sandbags. What does this war mean to you? There