"'—— Trench,' is the place," he said. "What do you say? you know it."
"I think, sir, that's as good as anywhere, but it's strafed rather badly."
"How far is that from the Bosche front line?"
We measured it on the map. It was eight hundred yards.
"Too far off; I must get much closer," I said. "Isn't there a place in our front trench?"
"There's a machine-gun position in a sap head," said an officer. "I am sure that would suit you, but you'll get strafed. Bosche cannot fail to see you."
"What time is zero hour?" I asked the General.
"At 6.20," he said.
Great Scott, I thought, 6.20 summer time—real time 5.20, and in September only one chance in a million that the sky would be clear enough to get an exposure. Certainly if the mornings were anything like they had been during the last week it would be an absolute impossibility.
