e. Shells were screaming
overhead in quick succession now, and we walked fast, making for a
white boulder that looked as if it would offer shielded observation and
protection. We found ourselves near the top of one of the giant
air-shafts that connected with the canal tunnel. Tufts of smoke spouted
up at regular intervals on the steep slope behind the village below us.
"We're in time to see a barrage," remarked the colonel, pulling out his
binoculars. "Our people are trying to secure the heights. I didn't know
that Gouy was quite clear of Boche. There was fighting there
yesterday."

"There are some Boche in a trench near that farm on the left," he added
a minute later, after sweeping the hills opposite with his glasses.
"Can you see them?"

I made out what did appear to be three grey tin-helmeted figures, but I
could see nothing of our infantry. The shelling went on, but time
pressed, and the colonel, packing up his glasses, led us eastwards
again, down to a light-railway junction, and through a quaint little
ravine lined with willow-trees. Many German dead lay here. One young
soldier, who had died with his head thrown back resting against a
green bank, his blue eyes open to the sky, wore a strangely perfect
expression of peace and rest. Up another ascending sunken road. The
Boche guns seemed to have switched, and half a dozen shells skimmed the
top of the road, causing us to wait. We looked again at the fight being
waged on the slopes behind the village. Our barrage had lifted, but we
saw no sign of advancing infantry.

The colonel turned to me suddenly and said, "I'm going to select
positions about a thousand yards south of where we are at this
moment--along the valley. Wilde will come with me. You go back and pick
up the horses, and meet us at Quennemont Farm. I expect we shall be
there almost as soon as you."

I followed the direct road to return to Bony. A few shells dropped on
either side of the road, which was obviously a hunting-ground for the
Boche gunners. At least a dozen British dead lay at intervals huddled
against the sides of the road. One of them looked to be an artillery
officer, judged by his field-boots and spurs. But the top part of him
was covered by a rain-proof coat, and I saw no cap.

Quennemont Farm was a farm only in name. There was no wall more than
three feet high left standing; the whole place was shapeless, stark,
blasted into nothingness. In the very centre of the mournful chaos lay