s boom. By
night the rifles and machine-guns take up the tale. One is frequently
aroused from slumber, especially towards dawn, by a perfect tornado
of firing. The machine-guns make a noise like a giant tearing calico.
Periodically, too, as already stated, we are subjected to an hour's
intimidation in the shape of bombardment. Shrapnel bursts over our
heads; shells explode in the streets, especially in open spaces, or
where two important streets cross. (With modern artillery you can
shell a town quite methodically by map and compass.)

Brother Bosche's motto appears to be: "It is a fine morning. There is
nothing in the trenches doing. We abundant ammunition have. Let us a
little frightfulness into the town pump!" So he pumps.

But nobody seems to mind. Of course there is a casualty now and then.
Occasionally a hole is blown in a road, or the side of a house is
knocked in. Yet the general attitude of the population is one of
rather interested expectancy. There is always the cellar to retire to
if things get really serious. The gratings are sandbagged to that end.
At other times--well, there is always the pleasing possibility of
witnessing the sudden removal of your neighbour's landmark.

Officers breakfasting in their billets look up from their porridge,
and say,--

"That's a dud! _That's_ a better one! Stick to it, Bill!"

It really is most discouraging, to a sensitive and conscientious Hun.

The same unconcern reigns in the trenches. Let us imagine that we are
members of a distinguished party from Headquarters, about to make a
tour of inspection.

We leave the town, and after a short walk along the inevitable
poplar-lined road turn into a field. The country all round us is
flat--flat as Cheshire; and, like Cheshire, has a pond in every field.
But in the hazy distance stands a low ridge.

"Better keep close to the hedge," suggests the officer in charge.
"There are eighty guns on that ridge. It's a misty morning; but
they've got all the ranges about here to a yard; so they _might_--"

We keep close to the hedge.

Presently we find ourselves entering upon a wide but sticky path
cut in the clay. At the entrance stands a neat notice-board, which
announces, somewhat unexpectedly:--

OLD KENT ROAD

The field is flat, but the path runs downhill. Consequently we soon
find ourselves tramping along below the ground-level, with a
stout parapet of clay on either side of us. Overhead there is
nothing--nothing but the