Their second night in the trenches was merely a repetition of the first.  After a lively sunset fusillade had died down, the Germans lay quiet until dawn.  The German artillery were so regular in their habits that it almost seemed as though they must be working by a printed programme, which directed that at six o’clock precisely in the morning, every battery was to fire off a certain number of rounds, absolutely regardless of whatever targets they might have been offered, and, having fired the requisite number of rounds, the battery was to lie quiet until, say, eleven o’clock.  Of course, the thing was ludicrous, but it seemed to be the only explanation.

A mail was included in the rations.  He himself drew blank, but the Senior Subaltern was sent a box of chocolates.  The sight of them, on Active Service, was a farce.  They were not the usual sort of chocolates that one saw—­“plain,” useful, nourishing chocolates.  They were frankly fancy chocolates, creams with sugared tops, filled with nuts, marzipan, or jellies, inseparable from a drawing-room, and therefore ten times more acceptable and delightful.

He got not a single letter from home, not from any one.  Not that he minded much, at that time.  Home, parents—­any softness of any description—­would have seemed unreal.

The happiness of the following day was very much impaired by rain, which fell intermittently throughout the whole day.  After the first shower he got up and began to look about him for some sort of protection.  Rather than have nothing, he picked up a waterproof sheet that had belonged to a wounded man.  It was covered with blood, but the next shower soon washed all trace of it off, and it kept him dry.

The next night, just after rations had been distributed, an order came to march off.  Haste, it seemed, was imperative.  And so, leaving behind as few things as possible, he paraded his men, without knowing where they were to go, and saw them set off behind the front Platoon.  Just as he was about to set off himself, he slipped down the side of one of the holes, and as he fled, his sword slid from its scabbard, and vanished.  He knew the chances of returning to that particular spot were five to one against, and he was determined to “hang on” to his sword, come what might, so he let his Platoon go on, while he groped about in the darkness for it.  It seemed incredible that a sword could hide itself so completely.  He kicked about in the pitch-dark for what seemed to be endless minutes before his foot knocked against it.  He “pushed it home” hurriedly, and started off in pursuit of the men.

But the darkness had swallowed them up.  He followed the road right into Poussey, but still there was no sign of them.  No troops, he learned, had passed through since the previous morning.  Evidently they had not gone that way.  The only alternative was the “awkward” road over the canal bridge which led into the next village on the line—­Souvir.