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[Page 228]

of the frozen ground has now been put in hand. The dugouts, too, which were nice and dry during the cold weather, have once more become mud holes.
No-man's land is again a slimy muddy horror through which the scouts have to squirm their way on their stomachs and almost swim through shell holes. They return in the grey dawn looking like worms, simply encased in mud, and like them, they leave a fresh pile of earth on the ground, after scraping their clothes, before burrowing below the surface again, into their dugouts where they remain till the ensuring night, when they once more emerge to crawl through the mere. Their job is by no means an enviable one this weather, although they escape all fatigues, which are the bug bear of the infantry man.

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