Apart from my lack of stamina, I was somewhat severely handicapped for sprinting, as, at the Commandant’s quarters I had been given the butt-end of a big shell as “a little souvenir” of my visit to Asiago. It certainly was an interesting trophy, though a trifle weighty, as may be imagined, and I did not want to leave it behind if I could help it, as I have a mania for collecting war “curios” for my studio; but it was a terrible temptation to drop it now and chance getting another later on. However, I stuck to it like grim death and, I may add, eventually brought it to London. The idea of a man of my years and experience attempting to run a mile in a blazing hot sun and under fire with a piece of iron weighing some 12lbs. under his arm was doubtless ridiculous, and probably my companion thought so, though he said nothing. We had just got out in the open when we heard a terrific explosion and, looking back, we saw that a shell of the biggest calibre had burst in the town. An immense column of white smoke and dust rose high in the air, and in it you saw fragments of timber and other _débris_ suspended by the force of the explosion in the still atmosphere for what seemed a few seconds—so long, in fact, that my companion actually had time to get his camera out of its case and take a snapshot. The artillery duel was now spreading ominously, and we could see that shells were bursting unpleasantly near the spot where we had left the car, the objective of the Austrians being, of course, the Italian batteries along the edge of the forest. About half way across was what looked like a railway embankment or something of that sort, the road passing under it by a low archway. There was a cottage close by, and when we got up to it we found that it was a sort of infantry post in charge of a non-commissioned officer, and that the soldiers who had preceded us had been ordered to take cover here for a time—and we had to do the same—the object of this evidently being to prevent too much movement being seen on the road. The cottage was little better than a shanty, and afforded no protection whatever. In the one room were several badly-wounded men lying on stretchers on the ground. The thunder of the guns and the bursting shells outside did not appear to affect them at all; in fact, two of the most heavily bandaged were actually playing with a pretty little tabby kitten that, strangely enough, was there. It was a curiously homely note, and singularly out of keeping with its surroundings. The sergeant detained us some little time, and then only allowed us to go on singly and with intervals between. He evidently was using his own judgment in the matter. When we reached the forest the shells from the Austrian batteries appeared to be passing overhead in a continuous flight, their wailing screech sounding like a high wind in the tree-tops.