their worth. The platoon
sergeant stopped me at the door.

"Going to have a kip, Pat?" he asked.

"If I'm lucky," I answered.

"Your luck's dead out," said the sergeant. "You're to be one of a (p. 250)
covering party for the Engineers. They're out to-night repairing the
wire entanglements."

"Any more of the Section going out?" I asked.

"Bill's on the job," I was told. The sergeant alluded to my mate, the
vivacious Cockney, the spark who so often makes Section 3 in its
dullest mood, explode with laughter.

Ten minutes later Bill and I, accompanied by a corporal and four other
riflemen, clambered over the parapet out on to the open field. We came
to the wire entanglements which ran along in front of the trench ten
to fifteen yards away from the reverse slope of the parapet. The
German artillery had played havoc with the wires some days prior to
our occupation of the trench, the stakes had been battered down and
most of the defence had been smashed to smithereens. Bombarding wire
entanglements seems to be an artillery pastime; when we smash those of
the Germans they reply by smashing ours, then both sides repair the
damage only to start the game of demolition over again.

The line of entanglements does not run parallel with the trench (p. 251)
it covers, although when seen from the parapet its inner stakes seem
always to be about the same distance away from the nearest sandbags.
But taken in relation to the trench opposite the entanglements are
laid with occasional V-shaped openings narrowing towards our trench.

The enemy plan an attack. At dusk or dawn their infantry will make a
charge over the open ground, raked with machine gun, howitzer, and
rifle fire. Between the trenches is the beaten zone, the field of
death. The moment the attacking party pull down the sandbags from the
parapet, its sole aim is to get to the other side. The men become
creatures of instinct, mad animals with only one desire, that is to
get to the other side where there is comparative safety. They dash up
to a jumble of trip wires scattered broadcast over the field and
thinning out to a point, the nearest point which they reach in the
enemy's direction. Trip wires are the quicksands of the beaten zone, a
man floundering amidst them gets lost. The attackers realize this and
the instinct which tells them of a certain amount of safety in the
vicinity of an unfriendly trench urges them pell mell into the
V-shaped recess that narrows tow