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their trench, and all you’ve got to do is to follow them. Keep some sort of a line, and for God’s sake don’t bunch. If you do, they’ll get you sure as a gun. Just keep your eye on me and follow my direction. Half-way over we’ve got to swing half-left, but it’s only five hundred yards altogether and we ought to get there easily. There’s no wire, and you’ll find they pack up when we get close. Whatever you do, don’t throw bombs about without orders – you’ll only hurt your pals if you do, and it won’t be necessary. Keep your rifles clean, ten in the chamber and one up the spout.’ So that was that, and there still wanted two hours to ‘zero.’
    Someone said that the objective was, appropriately enough, ‘Hazy Trench,’ but the news was received without enthusiasm. Apparently the ‘blood-lust’ was not yet roused, and it was unnecessary to hold back early starters. Orders came down the trench that the men were to make a ‘good meal,’ and the instruction seemed to them a masterpiece of cynicism. It was absurd to devour food when a few hours might relieve a man from the necessity of any further exertions in that direction. ‘Like fattening ducks,’ said someone. The old superstition of ‘Tempting Providence’ raised its head. To build up strength for to-morrow seemed ‘asking for it.’ Moreover, it was impossible to enjoy bully-beef dug out of a tin with a rusty jack-knife, and the biscuits and cheese made nauseous swallowing. Jam seemed strangely plentiful, and they wolfed it eagerly and undiluted.
    The time drifted slowly; self-preservation directed another oiling of the bolt, but mud mocked men’s efforts. Gradually Everitt found himself growing excited. His heart was throbbing unwontedly, and he found himself breathing quickly and swallowing often. He had never believed that a crisis could turn a man’s stomach, but evidence was not wanting that some were ill indeed. He himself felt qualms within and a gripping pain that waxed and waned. Talk subsided, but as the time approached cigarettes glowed in larger and larger numbers. Everywhere men were lighting up, puffing and exhaling. It was vitally necessary to do something, and the mere mechanical movements of smoking were a solace. To read was impossible, for thought wandered continually in one direction.
    Only half an hour more. Everitt began to believe that a much longer delay would drive him mad. Something whispered to him to start away now, alone. No longer did the tales he had heard of broken nerve seem incredible. He had read of men reduced by fear to trembling jellies of alarm, unable even to stand: others he knew had actually gone crazy.
    Another damp cigarette and another futile oiling of the bolt. Suddenly he saw the man beside him reading with apparent absorption a small book bound in calf. Curious to see what could hold a man at such a time, he must needs stoop to read the title: ‘Thomas à Kempis! Imitation of Christ!’ He knew that Myers was a devout Roman Catholic, and that it was his custom to read a chapter of the ‘Imitation’ daily. The two were bound together by a love of books. They were chums in the section, and many a time they had drowned their troubles in fierce arguments on Francis Thompson. Religion they had tacitly agreed to exclude from these debates, for a devout Catholic and a pugnacious Agnostic could find little common ground. In Everitt’s excuse it may be urged that he was roused to the tensest pitch of anxiety and apprehension. It exasperated him to see a man reading such a book at such a time. To him it savoured of cant. For the life of him he could not help crying: ‘What the devil is the good of reading that stuff? Why on earth spend your time that way?’ To which Myers replied calmly, ‘Why not?’ and finished the chapter.
    â€˜Get ready,’ said someone, and Thomas à