"Would you like to see the trenches?" said one of the officers,
smiling.
"Trenches? Seven miles behind the line?"
"Trenches certainly. If the German drive breaks through it will come
along this road."
"But I thought you lived in the administration building?"
"Some of us must hold the trenches," he said solemnly. "What are six
or seven miles to the German Army? You should see the letters of
sympathy we get from home!"
So he showed me the trenches. They were extremely nice trenches, dug
out of the sand, it is true, but almost luxurious for all that, more
like rooms than ditches, with board shelves and dishes on the shelves,
egg cups and rows of shining glasses, silver spoons, neat little
folded napkins, and, though the beds were on the floor, extremely tidy
beds of mattresses and warm blankets. The floor was boarded over.
There was a chair or two, and though I will not swear to pictures on
the walls there were certainly periodicals and books. Outside the door
was a sort of vestibule of boards which had been built to keep the
wind out.
"You see!" said the young officer with twinkling eyes. "But of course
this is war. One must put up with things!"
Nevertheless it was a real trench, egg cups and rows of shining
glasses and electric light and all. It was there for a purpose.
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