God's own problem play, working surely to its magnificent end. One
feels a sort of shame to crouch here in comfort, a useless spectator,
while brave men down yonder are facing that pelting shower of iron.

* * * * *

There is a large field on our left rear, and the German gunners have
the idea that there is a concealed battery therein. They are
systematically searching for it. A great shell explodes in the top
corner, but gets nothing more solid than a few tons of clay. You can
read the mind of Gunner Fritz. 'Try the lower corner!' says he, and up
goes the earth-cloud once again. 'Perhaps it's hid about the middle.
I'll try.' Earth again, and nothing more. 'I believe I was right the
first time after all,' says hopeful Fritz. So another shell comes into
the top corner. The field is as full of pits as a Gruyere cheese, but
Fritz gets nothing by his perseverance. Perhaps there never was a
battery there at all. One effect he obviously did attain. He made
several other British batteries exceedingly angry. 'Stop that tickling,
Fritz!' was the burden of their cry. Where they were we could no more
see than Fritz could, but their constant work was very clear along the
German line. We appeared to be using more shrapnel and the Germans more
high explosives, but that may have been just the chance of the day. The
Vimy Ridge was on our right, and before us was the old French position,
with the labyrinth of terrible memories and the long hill of Lorette.
When, last year, the French, in a three weeks' battle, fought their way
up that hill, it was an exhibition of sustained courage which even
their military annals can seldom have beaten.

And so I turn from the British line. Another and more distant task lies
before me. I come away with the deep sense of the difficult task which