odies.

Ammunition came up at night, and three thousand rounds per gun was
stacked in the trench in front, and camouflaged, ready at hand when the
attack should come.

For meals the cannoneers walked, in reliefs, to an expanse of low brush,
just over a rise a few hundred yards behind us. At a distance this was
an innocent looking spot. But when one followed a path into it, he
discovered on every hand pup-tents full of infantrymen, battery and
company kitchens cooking meals, and wagons and teams hidden by the
foliage. Here was our kitchen, with Tubach and Harris in action, and the
branch battery office where "Rainbow" Gibbs officiated, under a
tarpaulin beside the chariot du parc. Jerry Rosse, on his ration cart,
brought up fresh beef, which Tubach made into delicious roasts and
nourishing steaks, as well as an abundance of supplies which enabled us
to eat better than we had dreamed a battery could eat in the field.

Daytimes one would scarcely imagine a war was on. Not a gun could be
heard. Over the crest in front we could see the black ovals of the
enemy's observation balloons. Occasionally an aeroplane's whir made us
scurry to cover, while a machine gun took a few shots at it, if it was
an enemy craft. But otherwise scarcely a sign of activity could be seen
on the whole landscape.

At night it was far different. The heavy booming of big guns in our
rear, the scream and whistle of shells through the air overhead, the
thunder of the enemy's cannon, lasted from 10 o'clock to 3 or 4 in the
morning. The rattle of wagons, carts and caissons in the darkness
betokened a continuous procession along the roads up to the front lines
the whole night long. Red flares illumined the sky, and light rockets
hovered above the crest like a string of arc lamps. The gun crews stood
guard, a man at each gun, in two-hour watches through the night.

The men of the gun crews slept in pup tents beneath the flat-tops. The
other men--machine gunners and B. C. detail--carved bunks out of the
sides of the trench that ran along in front of the pieces. These bunks
they covered with their shelter-halves, whose brown was whitened, to
blend with the chalky soil they covered. Some shelter-halves bore
chalked signs, such as the "Windy Alley Hotel," the abode of Berney and
Pond, with the injunction, "Bombers Aim at This!" Under the caption,
"Familiar Sayings," was chalked up: "Tonight's the Night!" "What's for
Mess?" "Is there any Mail?" etc.

Capta