The village of Guillemont literally does not exist, in fact, it is _an absolute impossibility to tell where the fields ended and the village began_. It is one of the most awful specimens of the devastating track of war that exists on the Western Front. The village had been turned by the Bosche into a veritable fortress; trenches and strong points, bristling with machine-guns, commanded every point which gave vantage to the enemy. But, after much bloody fighting, our troops stormed and captured the place and the German losses must have been appalling. Many had been buried, but the work of consolidating the ground won and pressing on the attack does not permit our men thoroughly to cleanse the square miles of ground and bury the bodies and fragments that cover it. Unknowingly, when I had hurried for cover in the trench, the night before I had been within twelve feet of a party of five dead Bosches, and the atmosphere in the early morning was more than I could tolerate, so picking up my camera, etc., I took up fresh quarters. A snorting, crunching sound struck my ears and looking on my left I observed a Tank ambling forward to take up its position for the coming show. It was emitting clouds of bluish-grey smoke from its exhaust which gave it a rather ghostly appearance in the mist.... Now and again as it came to a very deep shell-hole it stopped to poise itself on the rim and then gently tipped its nose downwards, disappearing, to rise like a huge toad on the other side, and then continue its journey. More troops were coming up in platoon to take up their position in supports, ammunition carriers were taking up fresh supplies of bombs, Red Cross men were making their way forward--not a sound was to be heard from them and the whole place was now a line of silent movement. All the main work and preparation was to finish before the last shadow of night had been chased away by the light of the rising sun, before the setting of which many of the boys would lay down their lives that justice and civilisation might triumph over the false doctrine of blood and iron and barbarism--_German Kultur_. * * * * * "Come along, Malins, your cup of tea is ready," shouted an officer. I left my camera under cover of a fallen tree trunk and crossed to a covered shell-hole which answered to the name of dug-out. Anyway, apart from shrapnel or a direct hit from an H.E., we were comparatively safe, being below ground level. Along the centre was a rough plank on two boxes and grouped either side were several other officers of the battery. We all of us soon forgot about the previous night's efforts of Fritz in a gorgeous repast of _bacon_, fried bread, and tea.