Generally everything is quiet at this hour; like ourselves, the Germans are preparing dinner and bed.
The time comes for us to sit down to our meal. One man only remains on guard. The other three dine gaily, and at considerable length. When the conversation becomes too noisy, the sentry gives a kick at the tent canvas. Every ten minutes the poor fellow draws aside the screen and asks—
"Aren't you going to relieve me soon? I'm terribly hungry."
We reply—
"All right, there'll be something left for you. Remove that head of yours; you're letting in the cold."
He resigns himself to his lot, well aware that any one under cover is privileged to swear at a wet dog.
From time to time he fires a shot into the dark, just to make him forget his hunger. He puts himself en liaison with the entries right and left of him.
Finally he hears the words—
"Come along, your turn for dinner. One of us will take your place. Just wipe your boots and don't soil the carpet."
He glides into the hole, which exhales a blended odour of stew, tobacco and fighting. A broad smile appears on his face as he says: "That smells nice." And he believes it too. He perceives his portion simmering away on a soldier's chafing-dish. Speedily comes fresh cause for anxiety—