Rather to the general surprise, we have been moved into a new sector of the line, immediately south of what we called "our own." We have not been told why—the Olympians do not deal in whys and wherefores—but, according to gossip, we can take our choice between the wish to make us all familiar with the general lie of the land round here, to be the better prepared for a push; and the undoubted fact that a new Division is being moved into the line, and that our move southward facilitates this. Perhaps the real reason of the move is a mixture of both these; but, whether or no, the move itself provides striking evidence of the marked differences which exist between different parts of the line, and the extremely narrow and circumscribed nature of the knowledge one gets of the Front while serving in trenches.

Our "B" Company is holding just now the subsection which actually adjoins the right of the sector we used to hold. We are on the right of "B," and "C" is on our right, with "D" back in the support line. Even "B's" bit, though it does adjoin our old beat, differs greatly from that; and our present short line is hemispheres away from the sector we knew before. There's not very much of it—about half the length of the line we last held—but what there is is hot and strong, I can tell you. The way in which "B" Company's bit differs is chiefly that it's in sandy soil, instead of all clay, and so is much drier and cleaner, more habitable in every way than anything we are accustomed to. But our bit, variously known as Petticoat Lane (why, I can't imagine), Cut-Throat Alley (obvious enough), and The Gut—well, our bit is, as "the Peacemaker" said directly he saw it, "very interesting." I think that's about the kindest thing you can say of it; and interesting it certainly is.

To begin with, the greatest distance between any one spot in it and the Boche front line is seventy or eighty yards; and there's a place at which it's only half that. But the salient point in the whole sector is this: the half of our line that is seventy or eighty yards from the Boche line has between it and the Boche line a string of craters, the far lips of which are not more than fifteen to twenty paces from Fritz's sentries. These craters are sometimes occupied by the Boche and sometimes by us; but nobody attempts to hold them by day; they don't give shelter enough for that; and the betting as to who is to hold them on any given night is about even.

You might almost say, "But why should anybody want to hold the beastly things?" And if you ever set foot in one of them, you'd say it with some feeling, for it's like trying to walk, or rather to crawl, in a bottomless pit of porridge. When dusk is coming on of an evening half a dozen of our bombers may start crawling from our parapet, making for the nearest crater. Maybe Fritz is dull and misses them. Maybe he opens such a hot fire they have to shin back quick. Maybe, just as we are getting close to the near edge of a crater, and flattering ourselves we've been a bit too nippy for the Boche this time, we get a rousing welcome from the crater itself, in the shape of three or four well-aimed bombs among us. Then those of us who are still able to think realise that the Boche has been a bit beforehand and got there first. Next night the process is reversed. During last night those confounded craters changed hands three times, remaining at last, I am glad to say, with us. We lost one man killed and two wounded. But we brought back two wounded and one dead Boche, and we reckon to have knocked out at least six others.

It was a nightmare of a night, to tell the truth, but nothing big enough to get into dispatches. One point about the holding of these craters is that it enables you to lob bombs, or almost anything else for that matter, into the Boche front trench. Down here we really are learning something about oil-cans, mortars, and short range heavy stuff generally. It's very much hand-to-hand warfare, and, I suppose because of that, much more savage and more primitive than anything we've seen before. There practically isn't any No Man's Land here. It's just our trench and their trench and the muddy, bloody cock-pit between, all churned into a slushy batter by high explosives, and full of all manner of ghastly remains. Souvenirs! By Heavens! the curio hunters could find all they wanted here within a few yards of where I'm sitting, but not many of 'em would have the spunk to gather 'em in. You see, I haven't any great respect for the souvenir hunter. He seems a ghoulish sort of a creature to me, and I can't believe the cynical old "Peacemaker" when he says the bulk of them, and all the more inveterate sort, are women.

The C.O. tells "the Peacemaker" he is so arranging things that no Company will get more than four days on end in Petticoat Lane, and then the other three days of the turn in trenches, in the support line, where Battalion Headquarters is. "A" Company, of course, takes glory to itself for having been the first to be sent in here, and I think this fully compensates them for the fact that nobody's had any rest worth speaking about since we got in. We shall probably do better in that respect when we have time to get used to the change. In fact, I can see a difference already in the men's attitude. But, mind you, the change is radical, from two hundred yards' interval between yourself and Fritz, down to fifty yards. It affects every moment of your life, and every mortal thing you do. More, it actually affects what you say. You don't make any telephonic arrangements about patrols and that sort of thing here. We are learning German at a great rate. But it was very startling to our fellows the first night, when they found they could hear voices in the enemy line. It seemed to bring Fritz and his ingenious engines very close indeed.

But already the men have begun to crack their little jokes about it, and pretend to be careful about setting down a canteen of tea or a bit of bread lest one of "them bloomin' sauer-krauters lean over and pick it up before you can turn round—hungry blighters!" I confess I'm conscious that the nearness represents a great deal of added nerve strain; but, thank goodness, the men don't seem to feel it a bit. They're just as jolly as ever. But it is mighty intimate and primitive, you know.

Imagine! The first thing I laid my hand on when I got into a crater on our first night, after we'd bombed Fritz out of it, was the face of a wounded Boche; and he bit my little finger to the bone, so that I had to have it washed and dressed by the M.O. for fear of poisoning. It's nothing; but I mention it as an instance of the savage primitiveness of this life at close quarters with the Boche.

There's simply no end to his dodgy tricks here. Three or four of 'em will cry out for help from a crater—in English, you know—and pretend to be our own men, wounded and unable to move, or Boches anxious to give themselves up. And then, if anyone's soft enough to get over the parapet to go and lend a hand, they open a hot fire, or wait till we get very near and then bomb. We had verbal warnings in plenty from the Company we relieved, but it's experience that teaches; and, whilst they may not be brilliant tricksters—they're not,—our fellows will at all events never allow the same trick to be worked off twice on us.

By his fondness for all such petty tricks as these—and, of course, they have dozens of dirtier ones than this—the Boche has rather shut the door on chivalry. Given half a chance, the natural inclination of our men is to wage war as they would play cricket—like sportsmen. You've only to indicate to them that this or that is a rule of the game—of any game—and they're on it at once. And if you indicated nothing, of their own choice they'd always play roughly fair and avoid the dirty trick by instinct. But the Boche washes all that out. Generosity and decency strike him as simply foolishness. And you cannot possibly treat him as a sportsman, because he'll do you down at every turn if you do; and here in Petticoat Lane being done down doesn't only mean losing your money. As a rule, you haven't any of that to lose. It means—"going West for keeps"; that is, being killed. It's that sort of thing that has made Petticoat Lane life savage and primitive; and the fact that it's so close and intimate as to be pressing on you all round all the time, that is what gives the additional nerve strain.

It is, of course, a great place for little raids. The trenches are so close that you're no sooner out of your own than you're on top of theirs. And I take it as evidence of the moral superiority being on this side of the line, that we see very much more of their trenches than they ever see of ours. It is a great deal more difficult to repair trenches here than it was when we were a couple of hundred yards away from the enemy, because of the frequency of the oil-cans and bombs. The consequence is that, from the point of view of the cover they give, both our trenches and the Boches' are much inferior to those we had before. But, curiously enough, we have some very decent dug-outs here, deep and well protected.

In fact, take it all round, we are not so badly off at all. And "interesting" the place most certainly is. ("The Peacemaker" generally means "dangerous" when he says "interesting.") There's something doing in the strafing line pretty nearly all the time; and strafing is a deal more interesting than navvying, pumping, and mud-shovelling. The chances for little shows of one sort and another are more numerous here than where we were before. We've tried one or two already, and when we get back into the support line you shall have full particulars from your somewhat tired but quite jolly

"Temporary Gentleman."