I went back and visited the other gun position, and spent a few minutes there also. At last I turned in reluctantly. I went out again at half-past eleven, and still the shells were screaming over. It seemed the token of an irresistible power. And there was no reply at all now from the German lines. * * * * * The short summer nights made life easier in some respects. We “stood to” earlier, and it was quite light by three. As I turned in again, I paused for a moment to take in the scene. Davies had retired to a small dug-out, that looked exactly like a dog-kennel, and was not much larger. As Davies himself frequently reminded me of a very intelligent sheepdog, the dog-kennel seemed most suitable. I heard him turning about inside, as I stood at the door of our own dug-out. The scene was one of the most perfect peace. The sun was not up, but by now the light was firm and strong; night had melted away. I went back and walked a little way along Park Lane until I came to a gap in the newly erected sand-bag parados. I went through the gap and into a little graveyard that had not been used now for several months. And there I stood in the open, completely hidden from the enemy, on the reverse slope of the hill. Below me were the dug-outs of 71 North, and away to the left those of the Citadel. Already I could see smoke curling up from the cookers. There was a faint mist still hanging about over the road there, that the strong light would soon dispel. On the hill-side opposite lay the familiar tracery of Redoubt A, and the white zigzag mark of Maidstone Avenue climbing up well to the left of it, until it disappeared over the ridge. Close to my feet the meadow was full of buttercups and blue veronica, with occasional daisies starring the grass. And below, above, everywhere, it seemed, was the tremulous song of countless larks, rising, growing, swelling, till the air seemed full to breaking-point. And there was not a sound of war. Who could desecrate such a perfect June morning? I felt a mad impulse to run up and across into No Man’s Land and cry out that such a day was made for lovers; that we were all enmeshed in a mad nightmare, that needed but a bold man’s laugh to free us from its clutches! Surely this most exquisite morning could not be the birth of another day of pain? Yet I felt how vain and hopeless was the longing, as I turned at last and saw the first slant rays of sunlight touch the white sand-bags into life. * * * * * “What time’s this working-party?” asked Paul at four o’clock that afternoon. “I told the sergeant-major to get the men out as soon as they’d finished tea,” I replied. “About a quarter to five they ought to be ready. He will let you know all right.” “Hullo!” said Paul. “What are you ‘hulloing’ about?” I asked.