ing for her only child.

And so the night draws on. Now there is a lull, and the sentries,
standing on the fire platforms, allow their heavy lids to fall in a
moment's sleep; now a sudden burst of intense fire runs along the line,
and everyone springs to his rifle, while star shells go up by dozens;
now a huge rumble from the distance tells that a mine has been fired,
and we wonder dully who fired it, and how many have been killed--dully
only, for death has long since ceased to mean anything to us, and our
powers of realisation and pity, thank God! have been blunted until the
only things that matter are food and sleep.

At last the order to stand to arms is given again, and the new day comes
creeping sadly over the plain of Flanders. What looked like a great hand
stretched up appealingly to heaven becomes a shattered, broken tree; the
uniform veil of grey gives place to grass and empty tins, dead bodies
lying huddled up grotesquely, and winding lines of German trenches. The
sky goes faintly blue, and the sun peeps out, gleaming on the drops of
rain that still hang from our barbed wire, and on the long row of
bayonets along the trench.

The new day is here, but what will it bring? The monotony may be broken
by an attack, the battalion may be relieved. Who knows? Who cares?
Enough that daylight is here and the sun is shining, that periscopes and
sleep are once more permitted, that breakfast is at hand, and that some
day we shall get back to billets.

XXV

JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER

On a wet and cheerless evening in September 1914, John Williams, tramp,
sat in the bar of the Golden Lion and gazed regretfully at the tankard
before him, which must of necessity remain empty, seeing that he had
just spent his last penny. To him came a recruiting sergeant.

"Would you like a drink, mate?" he asked.

John Williams did not hesitate.

"You ought to be in the Army," said the sergeant, as he put down his
empty tankard, "a fine great body of a man like you. It's the best life
there is."

"I bean't so sartain as I want to be a sojer. I be a hindependent man."

"It's a good life for a healthy man," went on the sergeant. "We'll talk
it over," and he ordered another drink apiece.

John Williams, who had had more than enough before the sergeant had
spoken to him, gazed mistily at his new acquaintance. "Thee do seem to
have a main lot o' money to spend."

The sergeant laughed. "It's Army pay, mate, as does it