The damage to the trees was so extensive that shells might be said to have literally cleared away the forest in some localities.
In spite of water in the trenches, the men were cheerily comfortable, many of them gathering around glowing brasiers or cuddling close to the wall of a cosy dug-out.
An enforced detour nearly landed us in an impasse. We had taken the wrong turning. The trench parapet became lower, the trench narrower, and the cold water deeper. Pressed for time, we pushed on. At last Nicholson, who was leading, saw an angle of front line trench ahead, and ran for it. I followed. Bullets sang overhead as the Huns got a glimpse of us, but we ducked low and splashed through for dear life in record time.
Nicholson became so interested in a view through a periscope that I took a picture of him while thus engaged. A genial acquaintance in the line offered to get a similar photograph of me. So I took the periscope, waving it slightly back and forth, and carefully inspecting the German trench forty yards distant. I detected a movement on the enemy side of the line. Steadying my periscope, I focussed my attention on the moving object.
As I did so, "Ping! smash!" came a bullet right through the top of my periscope.
"A clean bull," said Nicholson, beside me. "Are you hit?"
I had been about to call his attention, when the sniper scored, with the result that a shower of broken glass fell into my open mouth.
I was in great fear of swallowing some of it. Nicholson, seeing me dance about and spying a fleck of blood on my lip, thought I had been hit in the mouth by a glancing bullet.
He proffered help, I prancing about, gesticulating that I was all right, spitting out glass, but afraid to speak until I had cleared the last piece of broken mirror. The Captain entirely misunderstood my dumb show, and we caused some merriment among the troopers near by until I managed to eject the final bit and could explain that I was not in the least hurt.