of it, just over the near horizon, there protruded the shattered dry
stubble of an orchard long since reduced to about thirty bare, black,
shattered tree stumps. Nearer were a few short black stakes protruding
among the craters--clearly the remains of an ancient wire entanglement.
The trench was still traceable ten or twelve paces ahead, and there
might be something which looked like the continuation of it a dozen
yards farther--a line of ancient parapet appeared to be distinguishable
there for a short interval. That was certainly the direction.

It was the parapet sure enough. There, waterlogged in earth, were the
remains of a sandbag barricade built across the trench. A few yards on
was another similar barrier. They must have been the British and German
barricade built across that sap at the end of some fierce bomb fight,
already long-forgotten by the lapse of several weeks. What Victoria
Crosses, what Iron Crosses were won there, by deeds whose memory
deserved to last as long as the race endures, God only knows--one trusts
that the great scheme of things provides some record of such a
sacrifice.

Here the trench divided. There was no sign of a footprint either way.
Shells of various sizes were sprinkling the landscape impartially--about
ten or fifteen in the minute; none very close--a black burst on the
brown hill--two white shrapnel puffs five hundred yards on one side--a
huge brick-red cloud over the skyline--an angry little high-explosive
whizzbang a quarter of a mile down the hill behind. It is so that it
goes on all day long in the area where our troops are.

[Illustration: THE WINDMILL OF POZIÈRES AND THE SHELL-SHATTERED GROUND
AROUND IT]