shell-bursts. No dull boom in the distance followed by a long-drawn
whine, but only the earth and smoke thrown darkly up and then the
deafening double detonation.

The next day more shells came over, and the next day also.

The big holes with their earthen rims began to dot the fields in many
places. No damage of "military importance" had been done. Not even a
soldier had been killed, but only an inoffensive cow.

At night the sky was alive with the whirr of propellers, and shells
whistled overhead and burst a long way off.

One Sunday, toward the end of March, when we had a half-holiday, I
walked up the hill that was crowned by a large monastery and sat down
on the slope by a group of sallows. They were in full bloom. A swarm of
bees and flies were buzzing round. Peacock and Tortoiseshell butterflies
were flitting to and fro. The sunlight filtered down through the bluish
haze. I rested and let an hour or two slip by. Then I got up and crossed
a little brook and strolled along a narrow path that wound its way
through a copse. The ground was starred with wood-anemones, oxlips,
violets, cuckoo-flowers, and in damp places with green-golden saxifrage.
I came to a small cottage that had pots of flowers in every window. I
sat down while a hospitable old woman made coffee and chattered volubly
in Flemish. Another soldier arrived soon after. Had I heard the news?
The Germans had broken through on the Somme and had captured Bapaume. I
asked him if he had seen it in print. No, he had heard it from an A.S.C.
driver. He hoped it wasn't true, but he feared it was.

I returned to camp full of suppressed excitement.