I went outside again, and walked along Park Lane until I came to the Lewis-gun position just this side of the corner of Watling Street. The sentry was standing up, with his elbows on the ground level (there was no parapet) gazing alert and interested at the continuous flicker of our shells bursting along the enemy’s trenches. Lance-Corporal Allan looked out of the dug-out, and, seeing me, came out and stood by us. And together we watched, all three of us, in silence. Overhead was the continual griding, screeching, whistling of the shells as they passed over, without pause or cessation; behind was a chain of gun-flickers the other side of the ridge; and in front was another chain of flashes, and a succession of bump, bump, bumps, as the shells burst relentlessly in the German trenches. And where we stood, under the noisy arch, was a steady calm. “This is all right, sir,” said Lance-Corporal Allan. He was the N.C.O. in charge of this Lewis-gun team. “Yes,” said I. “The artillery are not on short rations to-night.” For always, through the last four months, the artillery had been more or less confined to so many shells a day. The officers used to tell us they had any amount of ammunition, yet no sooner were they given a free hand to retaliate as much as we wanted, than an order came cancelling this privilege. To-night at any rate there was no curtailment. “I believe this is the beginning of a new order of things,” I said, half musing, to myself; “that is, I believe the Boche is going to get lots and lots of this now.” “About time, sir,” said the sentry. “Is there a push coming off?” said Lance-Corporal Allan. “I don’t know,” I replied. “But I expect we shall be doing something soon. It’s quite certain we’re going to get our three weeks’ rest after this turn in. The Brigade Major told me so.” Corporal Allan smiled, and as he did so the flashes lit up his face. He was quite a boy, only eighteen, I believe, but an excellent N.C.O. He had a very beautiful though sensuous face that used to remind me sometimes of the “Satyr” of Praxiteles. His only fault was an inclination to sulkiness at times, which was perhaps due to a little streak of vanity. It was no wonder the maidens of Morlancourt made eyes at him, and a little girl who lived next door to the Lewis-gunner’s billet was said to have lost her heart long ago. To-night I felt a pang as I saw him smile. “We’ll see,” I said. “Anyway it’s going to be a good show giving the Boche these sort of pleasant dreams. Better than those one-minute stunts.” I was referring to a one-minute bombardment of Fricourt Wood, that had taken place last time we were in the line. It was a good spectacle to see the wood alive with flames, hear our Vickers’ guns rattling hard behind us from the supports, and see the Germans firing excited green and red rockets into the air. But the retaliation had been unpleasant, and the whole business seemed not worth while. This continuous pounding was quite different.