idered unhealthy. A church almost razed to the ground, with the
spire blown off and buried point down in the earth, moulders in (p. 081)
ruins at the back. It is said that the ghosts of dead monks pray
nightly at the shattered altar, and some of our men state that they
often hear the organ playing when they stand as sentries on the
banquette.

"The fire trench to-night," said Stoner that evening, a nervous light
in his soft brown eyes, as he fumbled with the money on the card
table. His luck had been good, and he had won over six francs; he
generally loses. "Perhaps we're in for the high jump when we get up
there."

"The high jump?" I queried, "what's that?"

"A bayonet charge," he replied, dealing a final hand and inviting us
to double the stakes as the deal was the last. A few wanted to play
for another quarter of an hour, but he would not prolong the game.
Turning up an ace he shoved the money in his pocket and rose to his
feet.

In an hour we were ready to move. We carried much weight in addition
to our ordinary load, firewood, cooking utensils, and extra loaves. We
bought the latter at a neighbouring _boulangerie_, one that still
plied its usual trade in dangerous proximity to the firing-line.

The loaves cost 6-1/2_d._ each, and we prefer them to the English (p. 082)
bread which we get now and again, and place them far above the
tooth-destroying army biscuits. Fires were permitted in the trenches,
we were told, and our officers advised us to carry our own wood with
us. So it came about that the enemy's firing served as a useful
purpose; we pulled down the shrapnel shattered rafters of our billets,
broke them up into splinters with our entrenching tools, and tied them
up into handy portable bundles which we tied on our packs.

At midnight we entered Harley Street, and squeezed our way through the
narrow trench. The distance to the firing-line was a long one;
traverse and turning, turning and traverse, we thought we should never
come to the end of them. There was no shelling, but the questing
bullet was busy, it sung over our heads or snapped at the sandbags on
the parapet, ever busy on the errand of death and keen on its mission.
But deep down in the trench we regarded it with indifference. Our way
was one of safety. Here the bullet was foiled, and pick and shovel
reigned masters in the zone of death.

We were relieving the Scots Guards (many of my Irish friends (p. 083)
belong to this regiment).