As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted and mutilated, limbless and torn, some half buried in débris--here and there lying doubled in unnatural positions, while others yet, seemed to be clutching at some mortal wound--I felt like one who fearfully treads into the vortex of Dante's inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but a hell far more dreadful than I had ever imagined it to be. After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found the spot we were to occupy, and, to our intense relief, the ---- Battalion, London Regiment, were in possession. After the usual formalities of the relieving and taking over of the line of shell-holes which marked the position, I stopped for a final word with one of the ---- officers: "How many casualties?" I asked. "About fifty in two days--bit tough, eh?" "Been attacked, then?" "No; shelled like billyho. They've got the range nicely." "Where's the Boche?" "Don't quite know; somewhere in front. About eight hundred yards away there's a trench which forms three sides of a square, each side about three hundred yards, with the open side resting on Leuze Wood, and the lower end extending into the wood." "Fritz there?" "In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is a bit of a mystery. The part that extends into the wood the ---- Regiment are holding; but the rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, that's what I think. Awkward position! Well, cheer oh!" After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the rising mist to take a view of my surroundings. There, on the right, was a high table-land, with a frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combles, which slowly emerged, house by house, from the rising mist. In the trench the right man of my company was vigorously shaking the hand of a French soldier, who marked the left of the French army. There, straight in front, could be faintly seen the trench formed in the shape of a square, and left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those peculiar stumps to the left of our trenches? They looked like the remains of a copse which had been shelled until only the stumps of a few trees remained. And where was Falfemont Farm? There was no sign of it anywhere. I was not sure of my position on the map; it was puzzling. I went over to consult the French officer on my right: "Morning, monsieur," I said, approaching a smart young officer. "Ah! Good morning; you relieve the ---- Battalion, London Regiment, already--yes?" "Yes; last night. I came to ask you what those stumps are over there; they are not marked on the map. Do you happen to know?" "Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing left now; very bad place that farm. Zay say one whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming that farm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le Capitaine." I went back to my trench. I didn't like the look of things. If Falfemont Farm got blown to smithereens like that, what chance did I stand? Whew! I was getting the wind up. CHAPTER XII OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND