When one stood on the earth which covered our roof, it was impossible to see any suggestion of a home underneath.

Nothing was in sight but the wide expanse of rolling country cut up on all sides by trenches and shell holes, and wearing a sort of khaki uniform of light brown mud.

To the east of us, lay the road bordered with leafless and battered trees, past which went an interminable line of lorries, guns and limbers.

We were very comfortable, and at night when the winds were blowing and the rain was coming down in sheets, it was not half bad after dinner to read aloud Tennyson's "Ulysses" or other of my favourite poems.

I am not sure that I did not at times, relying upon the inclemency of the weather overhead, recite some of my own.