No one can understand the discomforts of trench life when simply depicted in words. No one can describe a trench by word or picture; he can not introduce any one there by illustration, he must be there himself, or he can not understand its real discomforts. They did not seem fit places for civilized men, those who used combs, brushes, soap and napkins, had clean hands and faces. We were ghosts of the cave men.
Trench life, however, had its phases of good. It drew men together with a sense of companionship with danger and death, that they had not known before. While a needful reserve was kept up between officers and men, there was greater cordiality and a greater feeling of intimacy,—less harshness.
For some weeks there had been a season of peacefulness between the lines. The weather had become warmer and more springlike, with occasionally a sunny day. Then there came a change. We had become accustomed to trench duties and not a little tired at its sameness.
It was while I was on this duty that the change came. I, with others, was on detail at a listening post one night, and while intently listening, young Kepler said in a whisper: “Did you hear that, Sergeant?”
“I heard a growl,” I whispered, “as though some one was speaking.”
“I think they are going to attack, somewhere,” he said. “There, did you hear that?”
“No, what is it?”
“Some one giving orders,” he replied. “I can’t hear distinctly, but I am sure it means an attack.”
We sent back word to the trenches, and they in turn sent back word to the commandant in his dugout, that there was an unusual stir on the German front opposite us; though we could tell nothing more definite at that time.
It was not long before we learned the meaning of what we had heard at the listening post.