The wagons, too, make such a distinct noise as they rumble over the metal road. I agree with one of the men whom I hear declaring to a chum that 'the whole bally thing is "no bon."' The men inquire, when a fresh gun-shock is heard, 'Is that ours or theirs?' With a brave optimism, I assure them that all the guns in action are ours. They take me for a veteran, and say, 'It's all right; the padre says they are all ours.' Most of the men who have been in action before add to their authority by agreeing with me. But I have a shrewd suspicion that, like me, they _think_ they are all ours, and I know they _hope_ they are all ours. With a splendid audacity and tone of finality, reminiscent of my cricket-umpiring days, I continue coolly to announce to every inquirer, 'Yes, of course that's one of ours.' At last a shell breaks on the road with a vicious 'whiz-bang.' No one is hurt, thank God, but it was close, and the horses are playing up. Amid the silence which follows, one of our Australians cries out: 'Now, then, padre, what about that? Is that one of ours?' Such a question, and at such a time, demands a moment's thought. But I answer quite confidently, 'Yes, that's ours—now.' Everybody laughs, but it relieves the tension. It is relieved more by the fact that the lieutenant, realizing that we _have_ gone too far, has given the order to 'About turn,' and we are getting the horses and wagons behind the bend of the road. More inquiries. I've lost my faith in the transport. The doctor's groom has come for the restless 'Rosinante,' and I'm free. If I am to get to the Battalion Head Quarters, I must proceed 'on my own.' But first I will turn into this little shelter, a forsaken dug-out covered with stout beams and sand-bags. Two of us light up our pipes, but a profane sentry draws near. 'Now, then, you blighters, put out those pipes. You mustn't show the Huns a light. Don't you know you're in a very dangerous place?' It's all dangerous, but we didn't know that this place was specially dangerous. I must make some inquiries of my own. I would have to leave the transport some time. Why not now? I get into a long communication sap. Like many another on the Western Front it is called Watling Street. But it gives me a cue. I remember now that it leads into Convent Avenue, and that, I heard them say, leads into Plug Street, and that is the road to the Battalion Head Quarters. I pull my tin-hat firmly down, and when the banks are low I crouch, for the machine-gun bullets are whistling overhead, and all the choir and orchestra of the guns on both sides are in full voice now. The Concert of Europe has, by a metallic crescendo, reached its fortissimo.