and
they are sure of their own position along this front in Champagne.

It was to the first lines of defence along that front that I went in the
afternoon with other officers. Our way was through a wood famous in
this war because it has been the scene of heavy fighting, ending in its
brilliant capture by the French. It has another interest, because it is
one of the few places along the front--as far as I know the only place-
where troops have not entrenched themselves.

This was an impossibility, because the ground is so moist that water
is reached a few feet down. It was necessary to build shell-proof
shelters above-ground, and this was done by turning the troops into
an army of wood-cutters.

This sylvan life of the French troops here is not without its charm,
apart from the marmites which come crashing through the trees, and
shrapnel bullets which whip through the branches. The ground has
dried up during recent days, so that the long boarded paths leading to
the first lines are no longer the only way of escape from bogs and
swamps.

It might have been the scene of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" as I
made my way through thickets all aglint with the first green of the
spring's foliage, treading on a carpet of white and yellow flowers and
accompanied on my way by butterflies and flying beetles.

But a tremendous noise beyond the stage would have spoilt the play.
French batteries were hard at work and their shells came rushing like
fierce birds above the trees. The sharp "tang" of the French
"Soixante-quinze" cracked out between the duller thuds of the "Cent-
vingt" and other heavy guns, and there were only brief moments of
silence between those violent explosions and the long-drawn sighs of
wind as the shells passed overhead and then burst with that final
crash which scatters death.

In one of the silences, when the wood was very still and murmurous
with humming insects, I heard a voice call. It was not a challenge of
"Qui va la?" or "Garde a vous," but the voice of spring. It called
"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" and mocked at war.

A young officer with me was more interested in the voices of the
guns. He knew them all, even when they spoke from the enemy's
batteries, and as we walked he said alternately, "Depart.. Arrive...
Depart... Arrive..." as one of the French shells left and one of the
German shells arrived.

The enemy's shells came shattering across the French lines very
frequently, and sometimes as I made my way t