Another turn in the road, and the great battle field rises in grim
reality before us. Far to the left stands the terrible Ypres salient,
so long swept by the tide of war, and away to the right are the blasted
woods of "Plug Street." Right before us rises the historic ridge of
Messines, won at such cost during the summer. We are standing now at
the foot of the low ridge where the British trenches were so long held
under the merciless fire of the enemy. From here to the top of the
ridge the ground has been fought over, inch by inch and foot by foot.
It is blasted and blackened, deep seamed by shot and shell. The trees
stand on the bare ridge, stiff and stark, charred and leafless, like
lonely sentinels of the dead. The ground, without a blade of grass
left, is torn and tossed as by earthquake and volcano. Trenches have
been blown into shapeless heaps of debris. Deep shell holes and mine
craters mark the advance of death. Small villages are left without one
stone or brick upon another, mere formless heaps, ground almost to
dust. Deserted in wild confusion, half buried in the churned mud, on
every hand are heaps of unused ammunition, bombs, gas shells, and
infernal machines wrecked or hurriedly left in the enemy's flight.


Here on June 7th, at three o'clock in the morning, following the heavy
bombardment which had been going on for days, the great attack began.
In one division alone the heavy guns had fired 46,000 shells and the
field artillery 180,000 more. The sound of the firing was heard across
France, throughout Belgium and Holland, and over the Surrey downs of
England, 130 miles away.

The Messines ridge is a long, low hill, only about 300 feet in height,
but it commands the countryside for miles around, and had become the