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A staff captain came out with a report, which he read: "The sound of
picks has been heard close to our sap-head. The enemy will probably
explode their mine in a few hours."
"That's the place I was telling you about," said the general. "It's
well worth a visit. . . But you must make up your mind to get your
feet wet."
As long as I could keep my head dry and firmly fixed to my shoulders,
I was ready to brave the perils of wet feet with any man.
It had been raining heavily for a day or two. I remember thinking that
in London--which seemed a long way off--people were going about under
umbrellas and looking glum when their clothes were splashed by passing
omnibuses. The women had their skirts tucked up and showed their
pretty ankles. (Those things used to happen in the far-off days of
peace.) But in the trenches, those that lay low, rain meant something
different, and hideously uncomfortable for men who lived in holes. Our
soldiers, who cursed the rain--as in the old days, "they swore
terribly in Flanders"--did not tuck their clothes up above their
ankles.


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