At dawn of the third day the shelling rose to its highest pitch of fury. The wet ground shook to the roaring blast of heavy high-explosive, the air pulsed and sang to the shriek of passing shells, the crack of bursting high-explosive ‘woolly bears,’ the rip and thud of their shrapnel showers. The noise was deafening, the smoke and reek of high-explosive fumes blinding and choking. The flank of the battalion rested on a road which ran through the British and German lines, and the trenches to both sides of this road appeared to have been selected for the heaviest share by far of the bombardment. ‘They’ll charge across the open and down the road,’ said Sergeant Billy Ruff. ‘You see now if I’m not right.’ ‘I don’t care a two-anna-bit how or where they charges,’ answered the private he spoke to, ‘if so be they’d only be _jildi_[4] an’ get on wi’ the drill.’ ‘Here they come,’ said the sergeant hurriedly. ‘_Dekko_[5] the road. Wot did I tell you? ’Strewth, an’ there ain’t ’arf a mob of ’em, I don’t think.’ ‘Hold your fire, men,’ called one of the officers. ‘Wait till they get well in the open. Pass the word—hold your fire;’ and down the line of the wrecked trench ran the order from man to man, ‘Hold your fire—pass the word—hold your fire.’ So they held their fire, although on the other side of the road the trenches had already opened at the longer range. Deceived apparently by the silence into believing that the battalion had retired or been annihilated by the storm of shell-fire, the Germans poured out into the open and swarmed down in solid mass. They sang in a deep chorus as they came running heavily and waving their rifles over their heads. ‘Blimey, ’ark at ’em singing,’ said Sergeant Billy Ruff. ‘Come on, my bloomin’ canaries, you’ll get somethin’ to sing about presently.’