Captain Straight strode up and down.  “It won’t do, my lads.  You must not ask questions.  Why, men, let those English fellows ask you the questions.  Don’t you speak at all ... just you be brave.  I know you are brave ... stick out your chests.”  The captain gave us an illustration.  We all drew ourselves up; we almost burst the buttons from our tunics in our endeavor to expand ... with bravery.

“Keep your heads high,” the captain went on, one word tripping the other in the eagerness of his speech.  “March right in.  Don’t stop for anything.  Get close to the parapet.  Look at the British boys; throw them ‘Hello, guys!’ and begin to shoot right away.”

We were ready for anything.  Were we not brave?  Hadn’t we shown our bravery by creeping up a ruined stairway only three miles from the enemy?  We promised our captain, and then we commenced our march to the front.

The green soldier is always put into the first line at the start.  The general idea is that he should be put in reserves and worked up gradually, but, save under exceptional circumstances, he is put in the front line and worked back.

It has been demonstrated that shell fire is much more severe on a man’s nerves than rifle fire.  Reserve trenches suffer more from shell fire than do the front line trenches.  The reason is obvious.  Sometimes the front line is but a stone’s throw from the front line of the enemy.  Sometimes we can converse with the enemy from one trench to the other.  In such cases it is impossible for heavy artillery to be trained on the front.  Rifles and bombs are the only explosives under these conditions.

Again, the green soldier is never put into the trenches alone.  A company of raw arrivals is sandwiched in with seasoned men.  As we were the first Canadians to arrive, and there was none of our own men to help acclimatize us, we went in with an English regiment.  There was one English, one Canadian and so on down the line.  These boys belonged to the Notts and Derbys.  Jolly fine boys, too.  We became fast friends.  They chummed to us as they would to their own.  They showed us the ropes.  They gave us tips on this thing and that.  They told us the best way to cook, the various devices for snatching a few minutes’ rest.  They described the most effective “scratching” methods for the elimination of “gray-backs,” “red-stripes,” “cooties,” “crawlies”—­any name you like to give those hosts of insect enemies that infest every trench.

Now, “going in” isn’t so easy as it sounds.  We don’t advance in companies four deep.  We don’t have bands.  We don’t have pipes to inspire our courage and rouse the fighting spirit inherited from long dead ancestors.  It is a very—­a vastly different matter.  We go into the trenches in single file, each man about six paces from his nearest comrade.  There is no question about keeping behind.  Instinct takes care of that.