"If she speaks, we want to know it," Guahn says; "I can see her from here when she flashes and there's another man who can see her from another place. You see we get an intersection of angles on her and then we know where she is just as though she had sent her address. Two minutes later we drop a card on her and keep her warm." "Is that that gun from Russia we heard about?" Griffin asks. "No," answers Guahn, "we are not looking for her from that station. Besides, she isn't Russian. She was made by the British, used by the Russians, captured by the Germans and in turn is used by them against Americans. We have found pieces of her shell and they all have an English trade mark on them. She fires big eight inch stuff." Griffin is watching in another direction for another flash and Stanton is on the lookout for signal flares and the flash of a signal light projector which might be used in case the telephone communication is disturbed by enemy fire. It is then that the runners at the base of the tree must carry the message back by horse. Only an occasional thump is heard forward in the darkness. Now and then machine guns chatter insanely as they tuck a seam in the night. At infrequent intervals, a star shell curves upward, bursts, suspends its silent whiteness in mid-air, and dies. In our tree top all seems quiet and so is the night. There is no moon and only a few stars are out. A penetrating dampness takes the place of cold and there is that in the air that threatens a change of weather. The illuminated dial of my watch tells me that it is three minutes of one and I communicate the information to the rest of the Irish quartet. In three minutes, the little world that we look upon from our tree top is due to change with terrific suddenness and untold possibilities. Somewhere below in the darkness and to one side, I hear the clank of a ponderous breech lock as the mechanism is closed on a shell in one of the heavy guns. Otherwise all remains silent. Two minutes of one. Each minute seems to drag like an hour. It is impossible to keep one's mind off that unsuspecting group of humans out there in that little section of German trench upon which the heavens are about to fall. Griffin leans over the railing and calls to the runners to stand by the horses' heads until they become accustomed to the coming roar. One minute of one. We grip the railing and wait. Two flashes and two reports, the barest distinguishable interval, and the black horizon belches red. From extreme left to extreme right the flattened proscenium in front of us glows with the ghastliness of the Broockon. Waves of light flush the dark vault above like the night sky over South Chicago's blast furnaces. The heavens reflect the glare. The flashes range in colour from blinding yellow to the softest tints of pink. They seem to form themselves from strange combinations of greens and mauves and lavenders.