going to a hot shop, s'welp me. Fifteen of our chaps copped it in ten minutes. Never mind; it's for Blighty I am."

The next casualty—a man with his left hand blown off at the wrist—was groaning and cursing as he passed, staggering like a drunken man and paying scant heed to the warning to keep well down.

Then two more, borne on stretchers. The knuckles of the bearers rasped the equipment of the Wheatshires, so narrow was the space in which to pass, while in order to cross the "unhealthy" section of the trench the men had to deposit the stretchers on the duck-boards and drag them sleigh fashion.

Three men, hobbling, using their rifles as crutches, completed the pageant of pain.

"Copped it proper," explained one of the wounded. "Never 'ad as much as a blinkin' chance to fire my blessed rifle."

"Wouldn't 'ave been much use if you did, Tommy," rejoined his comrade with a laugh. "You knowed as 'ow you're the rottenest shot in the battalion."

"No need to rub that in afore a lot of strangers," retorted the other. "'Op it; I'll race you to the dressing-station. No more dashed first line trenches for us for a bit, thank 'eaven. Foot it, you blighter, afore your leg gets stiff."

The twain vanished into the darkness, leaving the dank, reeking odours of dirt and sweat in the muggy air.

Another hundred yards and a voice rang out:

"Is that the ration party?"

"No," replied the sergeant. "Reliefs for the Wheatshires."

"Good luck to 'em, then!" rejoined the speaker. "But where the deuce are the rations? There's no barrage fire on now, an' we ain't seen no grub for two whole days."

"Keep your heads down, lads."

The caution was hardly necessary. Each man was bent almost double. Over the parapet on the left a whiz-bang exploded, sending a shower of dirt upon the soldiers' steel helmets. Trench mortars were lobbing their deadly missiles into the British second-line trenches.

"Here you are," explained the guide as the head of the platoon emerged into a short "bay" or 

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