were filled to the brim with warm
light as soon as the sun had climbed a little way up the sky. Empty
tin-lined ammunition boxes were used as cupboards for food. But of what
avail were cupboards to a jam-loving and jam-fed British army living in
open ditches in the summer time? Flytraps made of empty jam tins were set
along the top of the parapet. As soon as one was filled, another was set
in its place. But it was an unequal war against an expeditionary force of
countless numbers.

"They ain't nothin' you can do," said Shorty. "They steal the jam right
off yer bread."

As for the rats, speaking in the light of later experience, I can say
that an army corps of pied pipers would not have sufficed to entice away
the hordes of them that infested the trenches, living like house pets on
our rations. They were great lazy animals, almost as large as cats, and
so gorged with food that they could hardly move. They ran over us in the
dugouts at night, and filched cheese and crackers right through the heavy
waterproofed covering of our haversacks. They squealed and fought among
themselves at all hours. I think it possible that they were carrion
eaters, but never, to my knowledge, did they attack living men. While
they were unpleasant bedfellows, we became so accustomed to them that we
were not greatly concerned about our very intimate associations.

Our course of instruction at the Parapet-etic School was brought to a
close late in the evening when we shouldered our packs, bade good-bye to
our friends the Gloucesters, and marched back in the moonlight to our
billets. I had gained an entirely new conception of trench life, of the
difficulties involved in trench building, and the immense amount of
material and labor needed for the work.

Americans who are interested in learning of these things at first hand
will do well to make the grand tour of the trenches when the war is
finished. Perhaps the thrifty continentals will seek to commercialize
such advantage as misfortune has brought them, in providing favorable
opportunities. Perhaps the Touring Club of France will lay out a new
route, following the windings of the firing line from the Channel coast
across the level fields of Flanders, over the Vosges Mountains to the
borders of Switzerland. Pedestrians may wish to make the journey on foot,
cooking their supper over Tommy's rusty biscuit-tin stoves, sleeping at
night in the dugouts where he lay shivering with cold during the wint