higher level than the enemy's, and the bottom of the valley between the
Tamburo and this part of the Volconiac was in No Man's Land, as was a
relatively short slope on the Tamburo and a relatively long slope on the
Volconiac. The latter slope was very steep, but thickly clothed with
pines, most of which were now shattered by shell fire into mere dead
stumps. Even these stumps, however, made it difficult to get an
uninterrupted view of the Tamburo, and I had to go some miles along the
trenches, gazing through numerous peepholes, before I reached a point
from which I could satisfy myself that our bombardments had been
effective and that the reported new works were indeed real. Having got
this information, I smoked a pipe and talked with an Italian company
commander in a rocky dug-out, and then started to return.

Things were quiet on this sector of the Front that afternoon, though
Italian Field Guns were bursting shrapnel from time to time over the
Tamburo. As I went along the trenches I was several times greeted by
Italians who had been in America, "Hullo, John! How are you? How d'you
like this dam country?" This type brings back with it across the
Atlantic the frank, almost brutal, familiarity of a new and democratic
civilisation. It contrasts oddly with the quieter ways of those Italians
who have lived all their lives in Italy, amid one of the oldest and most
mature civilisations of the world.

On our way down the hill we passed a seemingly endless string of pack
mules coming up, laden with food and ammunition. Always at evening this
wonderful system of supply was visibly working, triumphing over
tremendous natural difficulties. We passed, too, a party of about fifty
men hauling up on long ropes a heavy drilling engine, the sort of labour
of which British fatigue parties have, luckily for themselves, no
experience. Mists came down from the mountains as we descended, and