to reach the actual spot, the famous bluff, round which the battle raged
in 1915. And now the guns begin!--the first we have heard since we
arrived. From our left--as it seemed--some distance away, came the short
sharp reports of the trench mortars, but presently, as we walked on,
guns just behind us and below us, began to boom over our heads, and we
heard again the long-drawn scream or swish of the shells, rushing on
their deadly path to search out the back of the enemy's lines in the
haze yonder, and flinging confusion on his lines of communication, his
supplies and reserves. He does not reply. He has indeed been strangely
meek of late. The reason here cannot be that he is slipping away from
our attack, as is the case farther south. The Vimy Ridge is firmly held;
it is indeed the pivot of the retreat. Perhaps to-day he is economising.
But, of course, at any moment he might reply. After a certain amount of
hammering he _must_ reply! And there are some quite fresh shell-holes
along our path, some of them not many hours old. Altogether, it is with
relief that as the firing grows hotter we turn back and pick up the
motor in the wood again.

And yet one is loath to go! Never again shall I stand in such a
scene--never again behold those haunted ridges, and this wood of death
with the guns that hide in it! To have shared ever so little in such a
bit of human experience is for a woman a thing of awe, if one has time
to think of it. Not even groups of artillery men, chatting or completing
their morning's toilet, amid the thin trees, can dull that sense in me.
_They_ are only "strafing" Fritz or making ready to "strafe" him; they
have had an excellent midday meal in the huts yonder, and they whistle
and sing as they go about their work, disappearing sometimes into
mysterious regions out of sight. That is all there is in it for them.
They are "doing their job," like the airmen, and if a German shell finds
them in the wood, why, the German will have done _his_ job, and they