From this point progress was slow. The ramification of trenches was chock-a-block with troops under arms--Australians and New Zealanders, making ready for the task of going over the top.
"You've been a precious long time about it," was the Sergeant's ungracious comment when the ration-party found their own section of trench. "Set to, lads; here's your grub."
Eagerly the men of the platoon threw themselves upon the dearly-bought food. So hungry were they that they made no complaint about the gritty state of the loaves. Perhaps it was as well that they asked no questions. After all, they were able to feed, and in a short space of time pannikins of tea were boiling over the biscuit-tin stoves in the dug-out.
Having fed, Malcolm turned in on his straw bed. He was not sleepy, only stiff, and since it wanted less than an hour to the time fixed for the New Zealanders to turn out under arms, he employed the interval in writing. The other occupants of the dug-out were similarly engaged, knowing that, confronted by the problem of an impending battle, there was a possibility that this might be their last opportunity to communicate with their relatives and friends.
"This is the rottenest part of the whole business," remarked Selwyn. "It gives a fellow time to think about going over, and the prospect isn't a cheerful one."
"You're right," assented a Digger who had taken part in four big engagements. "I quite understand; but mark my words, you'll forget you ever had cold feet the moment the whistle goes."
"It's that plaguey uncut wire and those machineguns I don't like," grumbled Joliffe. "What the brass-hats are thinking about to send the boys against that lot beats me. Why, back in Delville Wood----"
"Rifleman Carr here?" enquired a voice.
The ground-sheet hanging over the entrance to the dug-out was thrust aside, and Sergeant Fortescue, his head partly hidden in his steel helmet, appeared in view.
"Thought I'd drop in for a little chin-wagging," continued Fortescue. "I've some news that might interest you--and Selwyn too."