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The dew made our clothes damp. Cake and sweet
liquor were poor provisions for the night, and the thought of hot tea
was infinitely seductive. Perhaps somewhere one might find a few
soldiers round a kettle in some friendly dugout. We groped our way
along, holding our breath at times as a shell came sweeping overhead
or burst with a sputter of steel against the ramparts. It was
profoundly dark, so that only the glowworms glittered like jewels on
black velvet. The moon had gone down, and inside Ypres the light of
the distant flares only glimmered faintly above the broken walls. In a
tunnel of darkness voices were speaking and some one was whistling
softly, and a gleam of red light made a bar across the grass. We
walked toward a group of black figures, suddenly silent at our
approach--obviously startled.
"Who's there?" said a voice.
We were just in time for tea--a stroke of luck--with a company of boys
(all Kitchener lads from the Civil Service) who were spending the
night here.


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