the waterproof
sheets which have been protecting the machine-guns from the dews of
night are cast off; and we stand straining our eyes into the whitening
darkness.

This is the favourite hour for attack. At any moment the guns may open
fire upon our parapet, or a solid wall of grey-clad figures rise from
that strip of corn-land less than a hundred yards away, and descend
upon us. Well, we are ready for them. Just by way of signalising the
fact, there goes out a ragged volley of rifle fire, and a machine-gun
rips off half a dozen bursts into the standing corn. But apparently
there is nothing doing this morning. The day grows brighter, but there
is no movement upon the part of Brother Bosche.

But--what is that light haze hanging over the enemy's trenches? It is
slight, almost impalpable, but it appears to be drifting towards us.
Can it be--?

Next moment every man is hurriedly pulling his gas helmet over his
head, while Lieutenant Waddell beats a frenzied tocsin upon the
instrument provided for the purpose--to wit, an empty eighteen-pounder
shell, which, suspended from a bayonet stuck into the parados (or back
wall) of the trench, makes a most efficient alarm-gong. The sound is
repeated all along the trench, and in two minutes every man is in his
place, cowled like a member of the Holy Inquisition, glaring through
an eye-piece of mica, and firing madly into the approaching wall of
vapour.

But the wall approaches very slowly--in fact, it almost stands
still--and finally, as the rising sun disentangles itself from a pink
horizon and climbs into the sky, it begins to disappear. In half
an hour nothing is left, and we take off our helmets, sniffing the
morning air dubiously. But all we smell is the old mixture--corpses
and chloride of lime.

The incident, however, was duly recorded by Major Kemp in his report
of the day's events, as follows:--

4.7 A.M.--_Gas alarm, false. Due either to morning mist, or the fact
that enemy found breeze insufficient, and discontinued their attempt._

"Still, I'm not sure," he continued, slapping his bald head with a
bandana handkerchief, "that a whiff of chlorine or bromine wouldn't do
these trenches a considerable amount of good. It would tone down some
of the deceased a bit, and wipe out these infernal flies. Waddell, if
I give you a shilling, will you take it over to the German trenches
and ask them to drop it into the meter?"

"I do not think, sir," replied the literal Waddel