They were walking up the narrow straight road to M——. About every minute a heavy shell—or a salvo of heavy shells—plonked into M——. There was a sudden spout of black smoke and débris, a heavy sullen reverberating CLAANG as the loud detonation shook the twisted steel mining machinery, and re-echoed from the chalky slopes of Hill 91. To their right was a long slag-hill, mangled with shell-holes. Evans pointed to it. “The Boche Front line runs just in front of that, about four hundred yards away. At some points our own Front line is only twenty yards from theirs. It’s a rummy and awkward position. Most of the transport for M—— has to come up this road, and the poor devils are shelled and machine-gunned wickedly every night. All troops on foot have to use Southampton Row, the communication trench to your left. You see it’s got fire-steps and a parapet—it’s also a Reserve line which we have to man in case of necessity.” They got into the ruined streets of M——, and were promptly lost. The town was blasted to about three feet of indistinguishable ruins. A wooden notice-board over a mass of broken stones, said: “CHURCH.” Another further on said: “POST OFFICE.” Evans got out his map, and they stood together trying to make out the direct way to the section of trench they wanted. ZwiiiNG, CRASH, CLAANG!—four heavy shells screamed towards them and detonated with awful force within a hundred yards. The nearest swished over their heads and exploded twenty yards away. Four great columns of black smoke leaped up like miniature volcanoes; broken bricks and fragments of shell case clattered in the empty street. The reverberating echoes seemed like a groan from the agonizing town. The explosions seemed to hit Winterbourne in the chest. “Heavies,” said Evans very calmly, “eight inch, probably.” ZwiiiNG, Crash, CRASH! CLAANG! Four more. “Seems a bit unhealthy here. We’d better push on.” Winterbourne was silent. For the first time he began to realize the terrific inhuman strength of heavy artillery. Whizz-bangs and even five-nines were one thing, but these eight or ten inch high explosive monsters were a very different matter. ZwiiiNG, CRASH! CLAANG! Minute after minute, hour after hour, day and night, week after week, those merciless heavies pounded the groaning town. ZwiiiNG, CRASH! CRAAASH! CLAAANG! It was too violent a thing to get accustomed to. The mere physical shock, the slap in the chest, of the great shells exploding close at hand, forbade that. They became a torment, an obsession, an exasperation, a nervous nightmare. Unintentionally, as a man walked through M——, he found himself tense and strained, waiting for that warning “zwiing” of the approaching shell, trying to determine by the sound whether it was coming straight at him or not. Winterbourne’s duties during the next two and a half months necessitated his walking through M——, often alone, twice or four times every twenty-four hours.