"What is the name of this country?" asked one of the new comers.
"If it had a name, that is all that remains. We are somewhere in Picardy. The English are off there not very far. Their cannon have different voices from ours. Good Luck!"
His gray, faded uniform seemed to melt into the night. The New Comer stepped on to the firing platform and poked his head over the parapet. A comrade pulled at his trousers leg.
"Come down, Idiot," he said, "Fritz is only twelve yards away."
The Idiot came down, sniffing the night air luxuriously.
"We are somewhere in Picardy," he said. "I know without being told. It is like going home."
A sergeant approached, his body twisted sideways because the trench was too narrow for his shoulders.
"Have you a watch?"
The Idiot had.
Under his coat, so that the enemy should not perceive the glow, the sergeant flashed his electric torch and compared the watches.