"What you've got to do is to watch for the lifting of the curtain to our rear. Must have every man on the fire-step then. They must surely mean to come across after this." "I hope so. 'A' Company 'll eat 'em if they do." "That's if we can keep cover now without too many casualties. Keep as good a look-out as you can. You'll find me here, by the signallers." So I left him, and made my way along to a little observing shelter we had made near the centre of our bit of firing line. But, when I got there, I found that shelter was just a heap of yeasty mud and rubbish. Fritz was pounding that bit out of all recognition. By this time, you know, one could hardly see six paces ahead anywhere. The smoke hung low, so that every shell in bursting made long sheets of red flame along the smoke. And just then I got my first whiff of gas in the smoke: not a gas cloud, you know, but the burst of gas shells: lachrymatory shells some of 'em were. So I went hurrying along the line then, ordering all gas helmets on. I found most of the men had seen to this without being told. By the way, I ought to say that, so far as I can tell, bombardment doesn't affect one's mind much. You don't feel the slightest bit afraid. Only a lot more alert than usual, and rather keyed up, as you might be if you were listening to a fine orchestra playing something very stirring. It's rather a pleasant feeling, like the exhilaration you get from drinking champagne, or hearing a great speech on some big occasion when there are thousands of people listening and all pretty well worked up. As I scrambled along the fire trench I laughed once, because I found I was talking away nineteen to the dozen. I listened, as though it were to someone else, and I heard myself saying: "Let her rip! Let her rip, you blighters! You can't smash us, you sauer-krauters. You're only wasting the ammunition you'll be praying for presently. Wait till our heavies get to work on you, you beauties. You'll wish you hadn't spoken. Let her rip! Another dud! That was a rotten one. Why, you haven't got the range right even now, you rotters!" Wasn't it queer, jawing away like that, while they were hammering the stuffing out of our line? By the way, though I couldn't tell it then, our artillery was blazing away at them all the time. The fire was so tremendous that we positively had no idea our guns were in it at all. But, as a matter of fact, they were lambasting Old Harry out of the Boche support lines and communications, and the countless shells roaring over our heads were, half of them, our own.