and
Belgium is shaped like the letter L, and the Somme battle was waged at
the angle of the letter just where the line was farthest from Germany.
Of course it would be madness to attempt to finish the war on German
soil, if to do it we should have to devastate one-eighth of France and
its fairest and richest province.

These smashes are rapidly destroying the morale of the enemy, as well
as killing many of them, and will lead to the collapse of the army
pretty much where they are now. If they attempt an offensive on the
western front, where our armament is now so strong, it will hasten the
end. The British artillery had at the end of 1917 a reserve of fifty
million of shells, and pity help the German army if they bump into
them. The British offensive of 1916 was hastened somewhat by the need
of relieving the pressure on Verdun, and though the first blow was not
as powerful as it would have been if delayed a few months, it
accomplished much more than was expected.

Up the British line there crept news of big doings down south. There
was a new sound in the air--a distant continued thunder that was
different from any previous sound--the big drums of the devil's
orchestra were booming an accompaniment that was the motif of hell's
cantata. Up the line ran the rumor of a battle intenser than any yet
fought--more guns being massed in a few miles than the world had ever
seen before. Into every heart crept the dread of what might await us
down there, and to every mind came the question: "When are we going?"

Close behind rumor came marching orders, and as we left our old
trenches south of Armentieres we said good-bye to scenes that had
become homelike, and turned our faces south to make that "rendezvous
with death" in the dread unknown to which duty called us.

But there were weeks of peaceful scenes that seemed to us like a
forgotten melody of love and home and peace, and the train that bore us
out of the war zone seemed to carry us into another world, but though
the feast to our eyes was pleasant and like "far-off forgotten things
and pleasures long ago," we were not borne thither on downy couches.
Never were there seats more uncomfortable than the floors of those
French trucks, and we occupied them for days. When now and again the
train stopped and we could unbend ourselves for a short stroll, it was
like the interval in a dull play. We had taken our cookers with us on
the train, but the French railway authoritie