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"
"What's it like here?"
"It's hell. . . The devils blow up mines to make things worse."
Another boy spoke.
"Don't you mind what he says, sir. He's always a gloomy bastard.
Doesn't believe in his luck."
There were mascots for luck, at the doorways of their dugouts--a
woman's face carved in chalk, the name of a girl written in pebbles, a
portrait of the King in a frame of withered wild flowers.
A company of our New Army boys had respected a memento of French
troops who were once in this section of trenches. It was an altar
built into the side of the trench, where mass was said each morning by
a soldier--priest. It was decorated with vases and candlesticks, and
above the altar-table was a statue, crudely modeled, upon the base of
which I read the words Notre Dame des Tranchees ("Our Lady of the
Trenches"). A tablet fastened in the earth-wall recorded in French the
desire of those who worshiped here:
"This altar, dedicated to Our Lady of the Trenches, was blessed by the
chaplain of the French regiment.


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