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We were sitting in the garden of the general's headquarters, having a
picnic meal before going into the trenches. In spite of the wasps,
which attacked the sandwiches, it was a nice, quiet place in time of
war. No shell same crashing in our neighborhood (though we were well
within range of the enemy's guns), and the loudest noise was the drop
of an over-ripe apple in the orchard. Later on a shrill whistle
signaled a hostile airplane overhead, but it passed without throwing a
bomb.
"You will have a moist time in some of the trenches," said the general
(whose boots were finely polished). "The rain has made them rather
damp. . . But you must get down as far as the mine craters. We're
expecting the Germans to fire one at any moment, and some of our
trenches are only six yards away from the enemy. It's an interesting
place."
The interest of it seemed to me too much of a good thing, and I
uttered a pious prayer that the enemy would not explode his beastly
mine under me. It makes such a mess of a man.


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