All the next day the battalion worked on the trenches. To men used to the water and slush of Ypres they came as a revelation—the trenches and dug-outs in the chalk district. Great caves had been hollowed out of the ground under the barbed wire in front, with two narrow shafts sloping steeply down from the trench to each, so small and narrow that you must crawl on hands and knees to get in or out. And up these shafts they hauled and pushed the dead Germans. Caught like rats, they had been gassed and bombed before they could get out, though some few had managed to crawl up after the assaulting battalions had passed over and to open fire on the supporting ones as they came up. Jim and his men threw them out to be buried at night, and they confined their attention during the day to building up the trenches and shifting the parapet round. German sandbags look like an assortment out of a cheap village draper's—pink and black and every kind of colour, but they hold earth, which is the main point. So with due care the battalion patted them into shape again and then took a little sleep.

That night they moved on again. Now the first trench which they had occupied had been behind Loos, and there our new line was a mile away to their front on the side of a hill. The place they were now bound for was nothing like so peaceful. It was that part of the original German front where their old line marked the limit of our advance. We had not pushed on beyond it, and the fighting was continuous and bloody.

Now without going into details, perhaps a few words of explanation might not be amiss. To many who may read them, they will seem as extracts from the "Child's Guide to Knowledge," or reminiscent of those great truths one learned at one's nurse's knee. But to some, who know nothing about it, they may be of use.

When one occupies the German front line and the Hun has been driven into his second, the communication trenches which ran between are still there. The trenches which used to run to their rear now run to your front and are a link between you and the enemy. And as somewhat naturally their knowledge of the position is accurate and yours is sketchy, the situation is not all it might be. Moreover, as no communication trenches exist between the two old front lines—over what was No-man's-land—any reserves must come across the open, and should it be necessary to retire, a contingency which must always be faced, the retreat must be across the open as well.

But when you're in a German redoubt, where the trenches would have put a maze to shame, the work of consolidating the position is urgent and difficult. Communication trenches to your front have to be reconnoitred and partially filled in; wire put up; Maxims arranged to shoot down straight lengths of trench; new trenches dug to the rear. Which is all right if the enemy is half a mile away, but when the distance is twenty yards, when without cessation he bombs you from unexpected quarters, your temper gets frayed.

This type of fighting ceases to be impersonal. No longer do you throw bombs mechanically from one trench to another. No longer do you have no actual animosity against the men over the way. You understand the feelings of the guard when their German prisoners laughed on seeing men gassed—earlier in the war. And you realise that when a man's blood is up, you might just as well preach on the wickedness of retribution as request a man-eating tiger to postpone his dinner. The joy of killing a man you hate is wonderful; the unfortunate thing is that in these days, when far from leading to the hangman, it frequently leads to much kudos and a medal, so few of us have ever really had the opportunity....

In the place where Jim found himself it was at such close quarters that bombs were the only possible weapon. For two days and two nights it went on. Little parties of Germans surged up unexpected openings, sometimes establishing themselves, sometimes fighting hand-to-hand in wet, sticky chalk. Then, unless they were driven out—bombers to the fore again: a series of sharp explosions, a dash round a traverse, a grunting, snarling set-to in the dark, and all would be over one way or the other.

Then one morning Jim's company got driven out of a forward piece of the trench they were holding. Worn out and tired, their faces grey with exhaustion, their clothes grey with chalk, heavy-eyed, unshaven, driven out by sheer weight of numbers and bombs, they fell back—those that remained—down a communication trench. But they were different men from the men who went into the place three days before; the primitive passions of man were rampant—they asked no mercy, they gave none. Back, after a short breather, they went, and when they won through by sheer bloody fighting, they found a thing which sent them tearing mad with rage. The wounded they had left behind had been bombed to death. The junior subaltern was pulled out of a corner by a traverse—mangled horribly—and he told Jim.

"They packed us in here and between the next two or three traverses and lobbed bombs over," he whispered. And Jim swore horribly. "They're coming back," muttered the dying boy. "Listen."

The next instant the Germans were at it again, and the fighting became like the fighting of wild beasts. Men stabbed and hacked and cursed; rifle butts cracked down on heads; triggers were pulled with the muzzle an inch from a man's face. And because the German face to face is no match for the English or French, in a short time there was peace, while men, panting like exhausted runners, bound up one another's scratches, and passed back the serious cases to the rear. They knew it was only a temporary respite, and while Jim eased the dying boy, they stacked bombs in heaps where they could get at them quickly. It was then that the German officer crawled out. Down some hole or other in a bomb recess he had hidden during the fight—and then, thinking his position dangerous, decided for peaceful capture. It was unfortunate for him the junior subaltern was still alive—but only Jim heard the whisper:

"That's the man who told them to bomb us."

"That's interesting," said Jim, and his face was white, while his eyes were red.

Quietly he picked up a pick, and moved towards the German officer. Through the Huns who had come back again, fighting, stabbing, picking his way, Jim Denver moved relentlessly. And at last he reached him—reached him and laughed gently. The German sprang at him and Jim struck him with his fist; the German screamed for help, but there was none to help; every man was fighting grimly for his own life. Then still without a word he drove the pick.... Once again he laughed gently, and turned his mind to other things.

For hours they hung on, bombing, shooting, at a yard's range, and in the forefront, cheering them, holding them, doing the work of ten, was Jim. His revolver ammunition was exhausted, his loaded stick was broken; his eyes had a look of madness: temporarily he was mad—mad with the lust of killing. It was almost the last bomb the Germans threw that took him, and that took him properly. But the remnant of his company who carried him back, when relief came up from the battalion, contained no one more cheery than him. As a fight they'll never have a better; and it's better to take it when the fighting is bloody, and it's man to man, than to stop a shrapnel at the estaminet two miles down the road. That isn't even grey—it's mottled; especially if the red wine is just coming....