Machine-guns were rattling in a crescendo of sound that was like the noise of a rapid stream above the roar of a water-wheel. The enemy sent up rocket upon rocket--three’s, four’s, green and red. Niven, as plucky a boy as ever lived, watched eagerly. Then a perfect hail of shells began to fall. One could almost see our old trench change its form as one glanced at it. It was almost as light as day. Major Ogilvie was writing reports. One after another he sent out the runners to head-quarters, those runners every one of whom deserves the Victoria Cross. Some went never to return. All at once two red rockets burst away forward, on the right, falling slowly, slowly to earth. ULTRAMARINE had attained the objective. It was then 6.42 P.M. Curious, most curious, to see the strain pass momentarily from men’s faces. Two runners took the message down. It proved to be the earliest news received at H.Q. that the objective was reached. But the bombardment did not cease, did not slacken. It developed more and more furiously. Niven, one of the very best--the boy was killed a few weeks after--lay with his body tucked close to the side of the trench. I lay with my head very close to his, so that we could talk. Major Ogilvie’s legs were curled up with mine. Every now and then he sent in a report. My conversation with Niven was curious. “Have another cigarette?” “Thanks, Bertie.” “Fritz is real mad to-night.” “He’s got a reason!” “Thank the Lord it isn’t raining.” “Yes.” Pause. “Did you get any letters from home?” “Two.... Good thing they can’t see us now!” “_Jolly_ good thing!” “Whee-ou, that was close!” “So’s that,” as a large lump of earth fell on his steel hat. Pause. “I must get a new pair of breeches.” “When?” “Oh, to go on leave with.” “So must I.” We relapsed into silence, and from sheer fatigue both of us fell asleep for twenty minutes. I was awakened by Ogilvie, who kicked me gently. “I have had no report from Townley or Johnson for nearly two hours”--it was past eleven. “I want you to go up to the right and see if you can establish communication with them. Can you make it?” “I’ll try, sir.” Our guns had quieted down, but Fritz was still pounding as viciously as ever, and with more heavy stuff than hitherto. My experience in travelling perhaps a quarter of a mile of trench that night was the most awful that has befallen me in nearly two years of war at the Front.