one is left
alive upon it, or in it, is another question. We shall have cause to
remember Fosse Eight before this fight is over.

The Hohenzollern Redoubt, on the other hand, is a most inconspicuous
object, but a very important factor in the present situation. It has
been thrust forward from the Bosche lines to within a hundred yards
of our own--a great promontory, a maze of trenches, machine-gun
emplacements, and barbed wire, all flush with or under the ground, and
terribly difficult to cripple by shell fire. It has been a source
of great exasperation to us--a starting-point for saps, mines, and
bombing parties. As already stated, this mighty fortress has been
christened by its constructors, the Hohenzollern. It is attached
to its parent trench-line by two communicating trenches, which the
British Army, not to be outdone in reverence to the most august of
dynasties, have named Big and Little Willie respectively.

A struggling dawn breaks, bringing with it promise of rain, and the
regiment begins to marshal in the trench called Fountain Alley, along
which it is to wind, snake-like, in the wake of the preceding troops,
until it debouches over the parapet, a full mile away, and extends
into line.

Presently the order is given to move off, and the snake begins to
writhe. Progress is steady, but not exhilarating. We have several
battalions of the Division in front of us (which Bobby Little resents
as a personal affront), but have been assured that we shall see all
the fighting we want. The situation appears to be that owing to the
terrific artillery bombardment the attacking force will meet with
little or no opposition in the German front-line trenches; or second
line, for that matter.

"The whole Division," explains Captain Wagstaffe to Bobby Little,
"should be able to get up into some sort of formation about the Bosche
third line before any real fighting begins; so it does not very much
matter whether we start first or fiftieth in the procession."

Captain Wagstaffe showed himself an accurate prophet.

We move on. At one point we pass through a howitzer battery, where
dishevelled gentlemen give us a friendly wave of the hand. Others, not
professionally engaged for the moment, sit unconcernedly in the ditch
with their backs to the proceedings, frying bacon. This is their busy
hour.

Presently the pace grows even slower, and finally we stop altogether.
Another battalion has cut in ahead of us, and we must perforce