Hullo! What’s the light behind that bank of trees?--Fritz started a fire in his own lines? Doesn’t look like a fire.--It’s the moon coming up, moon, moon, so brightly shining. Pity old Pelissier turned up his toes.--Ever heard the second verse of “Au Clair de la Lune?” (singing) Au clair de la lune Pierrot répondit, “Je n’ai pas de plume, Je suis dans mon lit.” “Si tu es donc couché,” Chuchotta Pierrette, “Ouvre-moi ta porte Pour que je m’y mette.” _’Tis_ the moon all right, a corker too.--What do you make the time?--A minute to go, eh? Got your gas mask at the alert? The moon came out above the trees and shed a cold white light on the countryside. On our side, at least, the ground was alive with men, although there wasn’t a sound or a movement. Tree stumps, blasted by shell fire, stood out stark naked. The woods on the opposite ridge threw a deep belt of black shadow. The trenches were vague uneven lines, camouflaging themselves naturally with the torn ground. Then a mighty roar that rocked the O.P., made the ground tremble and set one’s heart thumping, and the peaceful moonlight was defiled. Bursts of flame and a thick cloud of smoke broke out on the enemy trenches. Great red flares shot up, the oil drums, staining all the sky the colour of blood. Rifle and machine-gun fire pattered like the chattering of a thousand monkeys, as an accompaniment to the roaring of lions. Things zipped past or struck the O.P. The smoke out there was so thick that the pin-points of red fire made by the bursting shells could hardly be seen. The raiders were entirely invisible. Then the noise increased steadily as the German sky was splashed with all-coloured rockets and Verey lights and star shells, and their S.O.S. was answered. There’s a gun flash! What’s the bearing? Quick.--There she goes again!--Nine-two magnetic, that’s eighty true. Signaller! Group.--There’s another! By God, that’s some gun. Get it while I bung this through.--Hullo! Hullo, Group! O.P. speaking. Flash of enemy gun eight--0 degrees true. Another flash, a hell of a big one, what is it?--One, one, two degrees,--Yes, that’s correct. Good-bye. Then a mighty crash sent earth and duckboards spattering on to the roof of the O.P., most unpleasantly near. The signaller put his mouth to my ear and shouted, “Brigade reports gas, sir.” Curse the gas. You can’t see anything in a mask.--Don’t smell it yet, anyhow. Crash again, and the O.P. rocked. Damn that five-nine. Was he shooting us or just searching? Anyhow, the line of the two bursts doesn’t look _quite_ right for us, do you think? If it hits the place, there’s not an earthly. Tiles begin rattling down off the roof most suggestively. It’s a good twenty-foot drop down that miserable ladder. Do you think his line.--Look out! She’s coming.--Crash!