I went within 2,000 yards of it yesterday, and saw the heaviest work of the British upon it. It was a wonderful May day, as today is, and the sun shone through a golden haze upon the town. As I looked into Albert and saw the shells smashing through, and then away up the Albert-Bapaume road, past the white rim of the great mine crater of La Boiselle to the treeless slopes of Posières, and over all that ground of hills and ditches to the high, wooded distant right, with its few dead stumps of trees, it was hard to believe that all this was in the area of the German Army, that the white, winding lines freshly marked upon this bleak landscape were new German trenches, and that the enemy's outposts were less than 2,000 yards from where I stood. Fritz Having a "Thin Time" Some siege gunners were lying on their stomachs and observing the enemy's lines for some monsters I had seen on my way up, monsters that raised their snouts slowly, like elephants' trunks, before bellowing out with an earthquake roar, annihilating all one's senses for a second. Some of the men passed the remark to me that "Albert isn't the town it was" and that "Fritz must be having a thin time there." They also expressed the opinion that the Albert-Bapaume road was not a pleasant walk for Germans on a sunny afternoon. I did not dispute these points with them, for they were beyond argument. Big shells were smashing into Albert and its neighborhood from many heavy batteries, raising volcanic explosions there, and shrapnel was bursting over the tracks in white splashes. _In describing the artillery fire which broke up a threatened assault on May 5, Mr. Gibbs wrote:_ A new German division, the 52d Reserve, and the 56th German Division prepared an assault on Ridge Wood. All these men were crowded into narrow assembly grounds and did not have quiet hours before the moment of attack. They had hours of carnage in the darkness. British and French guns were answering back the German bombardment with their heaviest fire. French howitzers, long-muzzled fellows, which during recent weeks I had seen crawling through Flanders with the cornflowers, as the French soldiers call themselves, crowded about them on the gun limbers and transport wagons and muddy horses, and which had traveled long kilometers, were now in action from their emplacements between the ruined villages of the Flemish war zone, and with their little brothers, the soixante-quinzes, their blood-thirsty little brothers, were savage in their destruction and harassing fire.