This trench is bad to-night—the shifting sand obstructs my progress.
It is the time when the tide ceases to rise and the Territorials begin their work.
The trench is empty. No, there is someone sitting on the sand. At his side is a frame shelter made of ammunition boxes. He is alone. I imagined the boy had lost his way.
"Where have you been?"
"I dunno."
"Where are you going?"
"Over there."
"Who are you with?"
"With the others."
Not another word.