which was to take him to the front trenches.

Chugging along through screen after screen of brown camouflage which
hid the little railway line from the watchful gaze of Kemmel, he seemed
to be passing through some mysterious land. By day it was hideous
enough; but in the dusk the flat dullness of it was transfigured. Each
pond with the shadows lying black on its unruffled surface seemed a
fairy lake; each gaunt and stunted tree seemed to clothe itself again
with rustling leaves. The night was silent; only the rattle of the
little train, as it rumbled over bridges which spanned some sluggish
brook or with a warning hoot crossed a road--broke the stillness.
Great shell-holes filled with rotting debris flashed by, the mouldering
ruins of an old chateau frowned down as they twisted and turned through
the grounds where once men had flirted and women had sighed. Now the
rose garden was used as a rubbish heap for tins; and by the over-grown
sundial, chipped and scarred by a stray shell, two wooden crosses stuck
out of the long rank grass. At last they reached the Canal, and the
engine stopped near the Lille road.

Close by, the flares lobbed up, green against the night; and a white
mist covered the low-lying ground. Across the road lay trees in all
directions, while, through the few that remained standing, a cold
bright moon threw fantastic shadows. On each side of the road,
screened by the embankment from machine-gun fire, sat groups of men
waiting for the trains.

At last Vane heard the first one--faintly in the distance. It loomed
up suddenly out of the mist and crept across the road. Without a word
the men detailed to push it seemed to rise out of the ground. Silently
they disappeared with it, like ghouls at some mysterious ceremony.
With muffled couplings it made no sound; and in a few minutes it was
ready in position, with its leading truck where once the owner of a
farm had sat before the fire, after the day's work.

And so they came--eight in all. Any noise--any suspicion on the part
of the Boche, a bare quarter of a mile away, and a machine-gun would
have swept the ground. But the night was silent, the flares still went
peacefully up, and the wind had not changed. It blew gently and
steadily towards the German lines. Only there was now just a faint
smell of pineapple in the air; one of the cylinders was leaking. . . .

Figures loomed up unexpectedly out of the mist; occasionally a low
curse could