THE FIRST NIGHT


I arrived in France early in February, 1915, and for three weeks we were
put into the hands of an Imperial battery, the Warwicks. They had taken
part in the battle of Mons, and the tales of the veterans of this
world's memorable retreat, told in their own modest way, gave me my
first clear impression as to what the boys of the Imperial Army really
had endured for civilization in that campaign.

At first I thought they were trying to bluff us Colonials, but the first
night I was in the lines I realized in the largest degree of human
intensity the fearful truth of their experiences.

The tuition given us by these warriors could not be excelled. They took
us to Fleurbaix, where their batteries were located on the outskirts of
the town, in cellars in the back part of a building destroyed by German
fire. There they had skillfully transformed the cellar into a gun pit,
with a loophole four feet in diameter overlooking an orchard at the
rear. Each time the gun spoke it would first be shoved into the hole and
the brush and sandbags removed, and as quickly as the message was sent,
the camouflage was replaced.

The color of the sandbags was a rusty gray and this, in conjunction with
the brushwood, prevented the spot taking on a dark appearance, which,
next to white, is the most easily distinguishable to an airplane; the
air birds are always on the lookout for these dark spots, watching them
intently to discover if any signs of activity are there, and immediately
anything smacking of life appears, the exact location is wired to their