It's about eighty yards away from Bosche. If we work out the
exact degree by the map of the 'blow,' I can obtain the right direction
by prismatic compass, and a few minutes before 'time' lift the camera up
and cover the spot direct. It'll save exposing myself unnecessarily
above the parapet to obtain the right point of view." The point of view
was accordingly settled. It was 124 deg. from the spot chosen for the
"blow."

We had been so busy over our maps that we had not noticed how quiet
everything had become. Hardly a gun sounded; the silence was uncanny.
Save for the scurrying of the rats and the drip--drip--drip of water,
the silence was like that of the grave.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Bosche is up to no good when he drops silent so soon," he said. The
words of the sentry recurred to me. "I've a feeling, sir, that I cannot
describe." I was beginning to feel the same.

At length my companion broke the silence.

"As Bosche seems to be going easy, and our artillery has shut up shop,
let's lie down," and with that he threw himself on the bed. I sat on the
box, which served as a table, smoking.

Half an hour went by. Things were livening up a bit. We began to hum a
tune or two from the latest revue. Suddenly we were brought to our feet
by a crashing sound that was absolutely indescribable in its intensity.
I rushed up the incline into the trench. What a sight! The whole of our
front for the distance of a mile was one frightful inferno of fire. The
concentration of artillery fire was terrific! Scores of star-shells shot
into the air at the same moment, lighting the ground up like day,
showing up the smoking, blazing mass more vividly than ever. Hundreds of
shells, large and small, were bursting over our trenches simultaneously;
our guns were replying on the German front with redoubled fury; the air
was alive with whirling masses of metal. The noise was indescribable.
The explosions seemed to petrify one.

I made my way as near the front line as possible. A number of Scots
rushed by me with a load of hand grenades. The trenches were packed with
men rushing up to the fight. I asked an officer who raced by,
breathlessly, if Bosche was getting through.

"Yes," he yelled; "they are trying to get through in part of my section.
They have smashed our communication trenches so much that I have got to
take my men round on the right flank. It's hell there!"

It was impossible to get through. The place was choked with men