One might as well have driven blindfolded as be dazzled by the lightning and star-shells. The risk of delivering rations at night being so great, the order was given to deliver in the early morning, trusting that the mist would hide the lorries as they travelled over the roads under observation. Very often such roads run between high banks on either side, and if one clambers up to the top (which, of course, must be done very stealthily, otherwise there is always liability to draw fire), a perfect view of the trenches may be obtained. I took a walk with my glasses one day and found a more or less concealed position from which I could see both lines clearly, and traces of the German attempts to shell the road below, which were evident everywhere. Here it seemed was a veritable dumping-ground for their shells, which had been, however, used to no account. Many had fallen in the marshes—no less than thirty fell in an hour, prior to our arrival, nearly all in marshland within a small radius. Our journeys were not without excitement; one, particularly, I shall not easily forget. We were first forced to make a halt outside Bray, on account of the very heavy shelling which was in progress at the time. During the halt we filled in the time by going round a very fine garden. The inhabitants having left, we regaled ourselves with some luscious pears which lay ripe on the ground, when suddenly a shell burst within forty yards of the roadside. We picked up a large piece, weighing seven or eight pounds at least. A few minutes later the order was given to continue our journey. This we did, although the shelling was still going on. It is an uncanny feeling, driving a motor-lorry along roads under observation or under shell fire. Whilst at Corbie I paid a visit to a large woollen thread manufactory, which was still being worked, almost entirely by women—a staff of forty against four hundred men prior to the war. I don’t think I ever saw such beautiful gardens as those which lay at the back of the château belonging to the factory proprietor. Carpet-bedding and elaborate borders, most beautifully kept, led down to a natural and intensely cultivated garden—lakes fed by the Somme, connected up by rustic bridges; weeping willows fringing the banks, and waterlilies floating on the water by hundreds. Such a contrast to the country only a few miles beyond, made ugly and desolate by war. The lakes were full of fish, and many a good dinner I made off a pike boiled in white wine. The French bourgeois of the Somme district knows how to cook fish as I have never before tasted it.