passed batteries of French artillery, and jokes and laughter came
out of the half darkness.

Topping a little rise, the moon came out bright, and away ahead the
silver ribbon of the Souchez gleamed for an instant; the bare poles
that once had been Bouvigny Wood were behind us, and to the right,
to the left, a pulverized ruin where houses had stood. Blofeld told
me this was what was left of the village of Abalaine, which had
been demolished some time before when the French held the sector.

At this point guides came out and met us to conduct us to the
trenches. The order went down the line to fall in, single file,
keeping touch, no smoking and no talking, and I supposed we were
about to enter a communication trench. But no. We swung on to a
"duck walk." This is a slatted wooden walk built to prevent as much
as possible sinking into the mud. The ground was very soft here.

I never did know why there was no communication trench unless it
was because the ground was so full of moisture. But whatever the
reason, there was none, and we were right out in the open on the
duck walk. The order for no talk seemed silly as we clattered along
the boards, making a noise like a four-horse team on a covered
bridge.

I immediately wondered whether we were near enough for the Boches
to hear. I wasn't in doubt long, for they began to send over the
"Berthas" in flocks. The "Bertha" is an uncommonly ugly breed of
nine-inch shell loaded with H.E. It comes sailing over with a
querulous "squeeeeeee", and explodes with an ear-splitting crash
and a burst of murky, dull-red flame.