A struggling dawn breaks, bringing with it promise of rain, and the
regiment begins to marshal in the trench called Fountain Alley, along
which it is to wind, snake-like, in the wake of the preceding troops,
until it debouches over the parapet, a full mile away, and extends
into line.
Presently the order is given to move off, and the snake begins to
writhe. Progress is steady, but not exhilarating. We have several
battalions of the Division in front of us (which Bobby Little resents
as a personal affront), but have been assured that we shall see all
the fighting we want. The situation appears to be that owing to the
terrific artillery bombardment the attacking force will meet with
little or no opposition in the German front-line trenches; or second
line, for that matter.
"The whole Division," explains Captain Wagstaffe to Bobby Little,
"should be able to get up into some sort of formation about the Bosche
third line before any real fighting begins; so it does not very much
matter whether we start first or fiftieth in the procession."
Captain Wagstaffe showed himself an accurate prophet.
We move on. At one point we pass through a howitzer battery, where
dishevelled gentlemen give us a friendly wave of the hand. Others, not
professionally engaged for the moment, sit unconcernedly in the ditch
with their backs to the proceedings, frying bacon.
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