Cunningly hidden away at different points, the guns will make their presence constantly known to you. Here a battery of ugly-looking howitzers is loosing off salvos into the Hun trenches, and a little further along, perhaps, a 6-inch gun by the roadside will every now and then belch forth a sheet of flame, as with deafening row it throws a projectile, weighing about 100 pounds, screeching through the air, which explodes perhaps five or ten miles behind the German lines. Guns of every size, from the 13-pounders of Royal Horse Artillery batteries to 12- and 15-inch Naval guns, can be seen and heard pounding away at the enemy when a big _strafe_ is in progress. No one appears to pay any attention to these deafening distractions. Adaptability to circumstances and surroundings is a cardinal principle of war. It is amongst such scenes as these that the Army Service Corps motor-lorries roll up as usual with their loads of rations for the personnel and horses of the guns. A little way behind a battery, it will be noted, is a bivouac. It is the improvised mess of the Gunner officers, and here you may meet these priceless desperadoes discussing "direct hits" that have been recorded to their guns by the observation officer ahead, narrow escapes and recent adventures amongst "Grannies," "Crumps," "Whiz-bangs" and "Heavies," whilst they consume delicacies from Fortnum and Mason with the utmost sang-froid and complacency, merely remarking that they hope the Huns won’t _strafe_ them to-night! They are totally unconcerned with the dangers that are constantly lurking around; thus does familiarity breed contempt of even Death itself. Now and again one notices roadside groups of the graves of German soldiers, all of uniform size and design. They almost invariably consist of a wooden cross about 3 feet high, surmounted by a little oval-shaped roof or shelter, to protect them from the weather—to such lengths in thoroughness do the Huns go and so far do they see ahead! Painted a grass-green colour, they are strangely out of keeping with the present hue of the soil and of vegetable life, so conspicuous by its absence. On each is painted in white characters the name and regiment of the man whose memory it perpetuates. This follows some such inscription as "Hier ruht in Gott" or "Unserem gutem Kameraden dem," etc. Not far from them are groups of British graves. The inscriptions on two plain wooden crosses that I noticed have particularly lingered in my mind: "Here lies a British soldier. Name unknown. Devon Regiment. He died fighting." The second, the epitaph of a horse: "To the memory of my dumb pal, Queenie. Killed in action, July 6th, 1916," gives an insight to the character of the British soldier and his love for the animals that work with him.