stretching an arm towards high ground swathed in
a blue haze five miles away. A painted notice-board told all and sundry
that horse traffic was not permitted on the road until after dusk. We
struck off to the left, dropped into a trench where we saw a red
triangular flag flying, and said "Good-day" to the brigade-major of the
Infantry brigade who had made their headquarters at this spot. Then we
got out of the trench again, and walked along the top until we came to
what was to be our future home--the headquarters of the Australian
Field Artillery Brigade that we were to relieve by 10 P.M. We received
a cheery welcome from a plump, youngish Australian colonel, and a
fair-haired adjutant with blue sparkling eyes.

When a brigade of artillery relieves another brigade of artillery,
there is a ceremony, known as "handing-over," to be gone through. The
outgoing brigade presents to the in-coming brigade maps and documents
showing the positions of the batteries, the O.P.'s, the liaison duties
with the infantry, the amount of ammunition to be kept at the gun
positions, the zones covered, the S.O.S. arrangements, and similar
information detailing daily work and responsibilities. I can recall no
"hand-over" so perfect in its way as this one. The Australian Brigade's
defence file was a beautifully arranged, typed document, and a child
could have understood the indexing. True, the extent and number of
their headquarters staff was astonishing. Against our two clerks they
had three clerks, and a skilled draughtsman for map-making; also an
N.C.O. whose sole _magnum opus_ was the weekly compiling of Army Form
B. 213. But there could be no doubt that they carried on war in a most
business-like way.

The colonel went off with the Australian colonel to inspect the battery
positions and view the front line from the O.P.'s, and sent me back to
bring up our mess cart and to arrange for the fetching of our kit. By
tea-time we were properly installed; and indeed the Australian colonel
and his adjutant remained as our guests at dinner.

The mess, cut out of the side of the trench and lined with corrugated
iron, possessed an ingeniously manufactured door--part of a drum-tight
wing of a French aeroplane. The officers' sleeping quarters were thirty
feet below ground, in an old French dug-out, with steps so unequal in
height that it was the prudent course to descend backwards with your
hands grasping the steps nearest your chin.

The Australian