forms in long cloaks stood out against this background of light. 

 "What Company?" 

 "The 24th of the 218th Regiment, sir." 

 "Are you taking over the Blanc-Sablon trenches?" 

 "Yes, sir." 

 "Good. When you've got your men installed, go for your orders to battalion headquarters. Your C.O. has them. Good luck!" 

 "Thank you, sir." 

 In the darkness, like a group of fantastic hunch-backs, the men stood round, leaning on their sticks and arching their backs under the amazing weight of their packs, crammed with miscellaneous paraphernalia. For the trenches were a desert island. How could you tell what you might want there? So the men took down everything they could carry. 

 They maintained a grave, morose silence, the usual silence that marked the occupation of a new sector. Besides, Blanc-Sablon had a bad reputation. The enemy's trenches were some way off—three or four hundred yards—it is true, but the nature of the ground was such that the only cover consisted of a few wretched dug-outs which were always collapsing and indeed, only kept in existence at all by great baulks of timber. Further, the place was wooded and cut by ravines where you could not see fifty yards ahead of you. And nothing in war is so nerve-racking as the mystery of the invisible. 

 A voice—"Any chance of lights?" 

 "Lights" meant cards. Card-playing was permitted when the dug-outs were deep enough and there was a good thick tarpaulin to cover the entrance. 

 Another muttered: 

 —"How long are we going for?" 

 A question that remained unanswered. In October, 1914, the war had not yet become an affair of administration, with a rota of reliefs, leave.... You never knew how long you would stay in bad trenches which you could not make up your mind to improve. It was not worth while. You might have been there a month already, but you would be certain to be moved off before the end of the week. 

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