The
most luxuriant dug-out; the most artistic window-box--these, in spite
of all biassed assertions to the contrary, compare unfavourably with a
flat in Knightsbridge. On the other hand, the knowledge that you are
keeping yourself tolerably immune from the assaults of your enemy is
heavily discounted by the fact that the enemy is equally immune from
yours. In other words, you "get no forrarder" with a trench; and the
one thing which we are all anxious to do out here is to bring this war
to a speedy and gory conclusion, and get home to hot baths and regular
meals.
So a few days ago we were not at all surprised to be informed,
officially, that trench life is to be definitely abandoned, and
Hun-hustling to begin in earnest.
(To be just, this decision was made months ago: the difficulty was to
put it into execution. The winter weather was dreadful. The enemy
were many and we were few. In Germany, the devil's forge at Essen
was roaring night and day: in Great Britain Trades Union bosses were
carefully adjusting the respective claims of patriotism and personal
dignity before taking their coats off. So we cannot lay our want of
progress to the charge of that dogged band of Greathearts which has
been holding on, and holding on, and holding on--while the people at
home were making up for lost time--ever since the barbarian was hurled
back from the Marne to the Aisne and confined behind his earthen
barrier.
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