bitten by disappointment that nothing thrilling has happened. "Just my luck," you observe to an officer. "Shells go, but none come." "Well, there's one!" he exclaims sharply, as a thundering explosion rends the air a little distance behind you. You turn at the sound and a great column of earth and smoke flies into the air, not an hundred yards from where you stand. You had gone about that distance from the batteries, and to your unexpert eyes the German shell seems to have fallen upon the very gun and among the very men whose work you had been admiring only a few minutes before; the trees hide from you the spot where it fell and exploded. Have the French gunners been hurt, you wonder, and suggest to the major that we go back and see. But: "Very sorry," he replies a little acidly. "You really have no time, if you wish to make the trenches." And then another fountain of earth and smoke flares upward behind you. And again a twisting whine as a third German shell makes its descent. "Something the matter with their guns," remarks an officer, "or that shell would make a straight sound, not a corkscrew whine." "Still, it seemed formidable enough," you suggest. "They are dangerous but in a curious way," observes a seasoned artillery officer. "I think that was a big shell. If it falls close to you, you may not be hurt by the fragments though you may be paralyzed by the concussion. It scoops out a lot of earth and covers you with dirt; it is the men who are standing just a little way off whom the fragments of the shell strike and tear badly." But the thought that the robust-looking and carelessly courageous young soldiers among whom you had stood only a few moments before as they served their guns had been hurt, will not leave you. Not till a week later do you learn that none of them was killed, none wounded. You make your way to the automobiles and feel that for another day once more fate has cheated you of any real excitement; for you are going to the trenches now; and familiarity has advised you to expect nothing extraordinary there. But fate is kind, and mild entertainment is being provided from the air a thousand feet above you. The French fire has been so rapid and heavy that the accustomed alertness of the Germans is sharpened, even beyond its usual razor edge. As the automobiles descend the hill and pass the short open space: "Bang!" comes a sound directly over your automo bile. "Huh!" exclaims a French officer. "That was only a '77'!" a term the French use for the shells of the small-calibered German field guns. Still, if that "77" had hit any one of the automobiles, there would have been another story. As it is, the German marksmanship appears to be fairly good. But it is not until you are well in the trenches six or seven miles away that you find how closely the German gunners can follow a moving party, even when going, apparently unseen, through zigzag passages. Away you speed miles upon miles in the open coun try. At last you alight and make your way for a long, long distance through a deep trench called an “approach." At intervals, other "approaching" trenches join the main "approach" at right angles. About half a mile from the village toward which you are making your way, where the local trench headquarters are located, the local commanding officer meets you. Very attractive and gentle-mannered he is, delicate of face and figure, spectacles before his mild blue eyes, suggesting the student, artist or dreamer. He is an architect by profession but almost as carefully schooled in the military art as are France's superb professional soldiers. He leads the way, and finally the monotonous walk through the "approaching" trench comes to an end, and you are in the streets of the tiny town. The major takes you to his personal headquarters first of all. Down the steps into the cellar of an old building you go, and stand in the brain center of this minute fraction of the French front. It is quite comfortable, and even interesting. A bed, a desk, a telephone switchboard with wires leading to every part of the trenches and light batteries under his command-you are pleased with the businesslike appearance of this subterranean headquarters. Then up and out upon the street once more, along which you make your way. "It is very dangerous indeed here," suggests a certain officer from the War Department in Paris. You know that there must be peril if this man makes such a remark, for you have heard something of his recklessness, such as standing for half an hour among fall ing shells, trying to take a snapshot of one of them exploding. Still, nothing happens and you watch two young masked soldiers at bayonet practice within a building opening on the street, surrounded by their companions, shouting and applauding as if at a boxing match. Along the street you go, and become conscious of a curious phenomenon. The village seems utterly deserted, and yet you have a sense that it is teeming with life. And so it is. Here and there a window is full of faces. Hardly a doorway that does not reveal some one. At the end of the street are the remains of what once was plainly a charming church, picturesque, and with a sort of dainty dignity, even in its ruins. You enter, and observe that in one corner, which is still intact, a mass is being said. And so, on to the real trenches, the fighting trenches of the French. You mount to an observation point just before, and scan in all directions the field of action, or rather the field of waiting. The French trenches you find thrust forward somewhat like a horseshoe; the German trenches circling them in front and on left. and right. "Will you have this seat? It is pleasanter, and you can see better." It is the French lookout who is speaking, and in perfect English. He is a small-statured man, with great mild blue eyes, his intellectual face covered with beard; he can not be over twenty-five years old. "Where did you learn such perfect English?" you inquire as, thanking him, you take the proffered seat. |