ill a few
Germans for our amusement. The request was instantly granted.

"Time for 4,300 metres," said the Lieutenant quickly and sternly, and
a soldier manipulated the obus.

It was done. It was done with disconcerting rapidity. The shell was
put into its place. A soldier pulled a string. Bang! A neat, clean, not
too loud bang! The messenger had gone invisibly forth. The prettiest
part of the affair was the recoil and automatic swinging back of the
gun. Lest the first shell should have failed in its mission, the
Commandant ordered a second one to be sent, and this time the
two artillerymen sat in seats attached on either side to the gun itself.
The "seventy-five" was enthusiastically praised by every officer
present. He is beloved like a favourite sporting dog, and with cause.

At the side of the village street there was a bit of sharply sloping
ground, with a ladder thrown on it to make descent easier. "This
way," said one of the officers.

We followed him, and in an instant were in the communication
trench. The change was magical in its quickness. At one moment
we were on the earth; at the next we were in it. The trench was so
narrow that I had to hold my stick in front of me, as there was no
room to swing the arms; the chalky sides left traces on the elbows.
The floor was for the most part quite dry, but at intervals there were
muddy pools nearly ankle-deep. The top of the trench was about
level with the top of my head, and long grasses or chance cereals,
bending down, continually brushed the face. An officer was uplifted
for the rest of the day by finding a four-leaved clover at the edge of
the trench. The day was warm, and the trench was still warmer. Its
direction never ceased to change, generally in curves, but now and
then by a sharp corner. We walked what seemed to be an immense
distance, and then came out on to a road, which we were instructed
to cross two by two, as, like the whole of the region, it was subject to
German artillery. Far down this road we could see the outlying
village for which we were bound. . . .

A new descent into the earth. We proceed a few yards, and the
trench suddenly divides into three. We do not know which to take.
An officer following us does not know which to take. The guiding
officer is perhaps thirty yards in front! We call. No answer. We climb
out of the trench on to the surface desolation; we can see nothing,
nothing whatever, but land that is running horribly to waste.