All is a bustle and stir in the trench. We are being relieved... Out on the main street the men slip into fours without any need for hustling, and there are no complaints from rear files about the pace, however much those in front step out. Striding along, one feels a tremor run through the little band at the sound of shells falling behind us; but the pace does not alter. We are coming out. Every step is one nearer that invisible, yet instinctively appreciable line which marks the danger zone. As we round the church corner breath comes bated, for there were casualties here this morning, and it is a critical spot. We are passing. . . . We are by. . . . Another of Death’s gins and traps escaped. Now for the plain! The pace is kept going: indeed needs checking; for we must keep our distance from the platoon in front. On we go. Somebody begins to whistle and the tune is quickly caught up: the spirit of gaiety is beginning to loosen its wings. Through Hébuteme, past the old billets, and now up the hill on the road to Bayencourt. Singing breaks out as we make the top of the hill. We are beyond the palsied area: almost to a yard this is where we cross the line. The cloud of foreboding is lifted: the expectation of life is free and natural again. << less