It had been raining when we crept out of our kennels to go forward. It
seems unnecessary to state that it had been raining, for it always has
been raining at the Front. I don't remember what degree of mud we had
attained. We have a variety of adjectives, and none of them polite, to
describe each stage. The worst of all is what we call "God-Awful Mud."
I don't think it was as bad as that, but it was bad enough.
Everything was dim, and clammy, and spectral. At the hour of dawn one
isn't at his bravest. It was like walking at the bottom of the sea,
only things that were thrown at you travelled faster. We struck a
sloppy road, along which ghostly figures passed, with ground sheets
flung across their head and shoulders, like hooded monks. At a point
where scarlet bundles were being lifted into ambulances, we branched
overland. Here and there from all directions, infantry were
converging, picking their way in single file to reduce their
casualties if a shell burst near them. The landscape, the people, the
early morning--everything was stealthy and walked with muted steps.
We entered a trench. Holes were scooped out in the side of it just
large enough to shelter a man crouching. Each hole contained a
sleeping soldier who looked as dead as the occupant of a catacomb.
Some of the holes had been blown in; all you saw of the late occupant
was a protruding arm or leg. At best there was a horrid similarity
between the dead and the living.
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