When the Germans retreated from Gommecourt, where so many boys of the 56th (London) Division had fallen on the 1st of July, I went through that evil place by way of Fonquevillers (which we called “Funky Villas”), and, stumbling over the shell-craters and broken trenches and dead bodies between the dead masts of slashed and branchless trees, came into the open country to our outpost line. I met there a friendly sergeant who surprised me by referring in a casual way to a little old book of mine. “This place,” he said, glancing at me, “is a strange Street of Adventure.” It reminded me of another reference to that tale of mine when I was among a crowd of London lads who had just been engaged in a bloody fight at a place called The Hairpin. A young officer sent for me and I found him in the loft of a stinking barn, sitting in a tub as naked as he was born. “I just wanted to ask you,” he said, “whether Katharine married Frank?” The sergeant at Gommecourt was anxious to show me his own Street of Adventure. “I belong to Toc-emmas,” he said (meaning trench--mortars), “and my officers would be very pleased if you would have a look at their latest stunt. We've got a 9.2 mortar in Pigeon Wood, away beyond the infantry. It's never been done before and we're going to blow old Fritz out of Kite Copse.” I followed him into the blue, as it seemed to me, and we fell in with a young officer also on his way to Pigeon Wood. He was in a merry mood, in spite of harassing fire round about and the occasional howl of a 5.9. He kept stopping to look at enormous holes in the ground and laughing at something that seemed to tickle his sense of humor. “See that?” he said. “That's old Charlie Lowndes's work.” At another pit in upheaved earth he said: “That's Charlie Lowndes again... Old Charlie gave 'em hell. He's a topping chap. You must meet him... My God! look at that!” He roared with laughter again, on the edge of an unusually large crater. “Who is Charlie?” I asked. “Where can I find him?” “Oh, we shall meet him in Pigeon Wood. He's as pleased as Punch at having got beyond the infantry. First time it has ever been done. Took a bit of doing, too, with the largest size of Toc-emma.” We entered Pigeon Wood after a long walk over wild chaos, and, guided by the officer and sergeant, I dived down into a deep dugout just captured from the Germans, who were two hundred yards away in Kite Copse. “What cheer, Charlie!” shouted the young officer. “Hullo, fellow-my-lad!... Come in. We're getting gloriously binged on a rare find of German brandy.” “Topping and I've brought a visitor.” Capt. Charles Lowndes--“dear old Charlie”--received us most politely in one of the best dugouts I ever saw, with smoothly paneled walls fitted up with shelves, and good deal furniture made to match.