My mother, more dutiful than my consort, was up frying bacon and eggs for me, made toast, poured juice and coffee; we had agreed that she would not provide anything so special as waffles or hash. My father had preceded me to the washroom, where I, soon to become EM № 3631-9558, now shaved. It was considered that seeing the soldier off to war was a man’s job — said with a smile; the Dad wouldn’t have it otherwise. Little else was said.

The weather was bad, the troops in a poor mood. The Army was stuck; one could add brightly: “But the Russians are doing great.” This Front was beginning to look permanent. New things were being added. More and more ammunition and artillery and airplanes arrived so that the enemy was subjected to practically continuous bombardment and dared not move about in the light.

The worst campaign of the War — West of Russia, though some even doubt that — proceeded regardless. The soldiers could not believe that it would last so long: they kept expecting a breakthrough on some other part of the Front. The vast fleets of Allied tanks and vehicles could hardly be employed in the mountains and the mud.