In the sky is an irregular line of watchful captive observation balloons for observing officers. In the language of the front they are known as "sausages," from their similarity in shape to that domestic commodity. Away in the distance is another line of stationary balloons of almost similar shape, for the Huns, also, are not unobservant. The barbed-wire cage, a temporary home for recently made prisoners, is always an object of interest; and everywhere one notices salvage parties clearing up and collecting together the quantities of waste metal, spent ammunition, accoutrements, etc., which litter the ground. Piled up at various points are stacks of empty shell cases, which by their size indicate the enormous quantity of ammunition that is being used by our guns in their work of pulverizing the German trenches and fortifications. Every one is busy—the newly won ground is being cleared, positions are being consolidated, roads are being made up, telegraph poles and wires erected, standard-gauge railway lines are being laid down. Whether at the Base or the trenches, war is carried on methodically and with the regular routine of a factory. It would appear to have become an institution. The whole war zone is linked up with a telephone system which compares favourably with that of London. Along the road one may encounter parties of prisoners being marched back from the line, and occasionally little groups of wounded being helped towards the ambulances. So much for the ground taken from the Huns in the Great Push of August 1916. To turn for a moment to another part of the line. From the gaunt and shell-shattered tower, which stands a landmark for miles around, on the summit of Mont St. Eloi I have looked across "the Labyrinth," as it is called, and watched the shells from our batteries beneath explode in the German trenches, or amongst their wire between our trenches and theirs, known as "No Man’s Land." It is an amazing and uncanny sight. Not a single sign of life, not a single human being, is to be seen; only the results of human and mechanical activity are visible. The guns below loose off with terrific noise, then in the distance there is a dull and heavy thud, as a huge solid-looking mass of black smoke suddenly rises up in a cloud from the ground and remains a few moments before gradually dispersing. To the right can be discerned the battered towers of Arras, and between this point and the trenches is the little village of Maroeuil, which nestles hidden away in a hollow and has been scarcely affected by enemy fire. There, crimson ramblers still blossom and roses flourish in the gardens, now almost choked with weeds, of its deserted cottages.