A little whiteness spread along the eastern horizon. We stared at our luminous wrist-watches. The second-hand had one more revolution to travel. The whistle sounded; our turn had come. If the enemy-had supposed that he had exterminated us. his disillusionment must have been bitter. There were batteries which he had crippled, but none that he had silenced. Like fiery serpents, even from where we were, we could see our bursting shrapnel hissing down on his tormented trenches. And now, when it was too late, he made a furious effort to complete our destruction. He tried to bury us beneath the weight of metal that he sent racing through the semi-darkness. Men and guns were blotted out by the dust of explosions; but the whistle for each new lift in the barrage went on sounding. It seemed a miracle that our shells did not collide with his in mid-air. His anger was not for long. Of a sudden, from intensity it died down into nothing. We knew what that meant: the bayonets of our infantry were tossing human hay in his trenches, our heavy artillery was raking his batteries, and our tanks were going forward, tracking down their prey like blood-hounds. Dawn strengthened. From a shadowy hint of whiteness it became a pillar of flame, from a pillar of flame a shaft of dazzling brightness. We gazed on the night’s work. It was as though a gigantic plough had furrowed the valley from end to end. Guns leaned over on their axles with their wheels smashed; the men who should have been serving them lay scattered about, hair buried and scarcely recognisable. Charred piles of ammunition smoked lazily and occasionally sputtered like Camp fireworks. We marvelled how we had escaped; all the guns of our battery were still in action. Again it must have been the swamp that had saved them. We could estimate the progress that our infantry were making by the orders to lengthen our range, which we kept receiving across the ‘phone. They were going very rapidly. The enemy resistance could not have been as strong as had been expected. We judged that the first wave of our attack must be almost through the Hindenburg Line. Soon it would be necessary for us to hook in and move forward if we were not to get out of touch. It was eight o’clock when our teams arrived with Heming riding at their head. None of us commented on his presence. He had disobeyed the summons to England and was taking one last chance in battle of maintaining his silence forever. We knew then that the woman whom he had loved was guilty—that whatever he could have said would have told against her. His face had a sterner expression than I had ever seen it wear; it looked gray and haggard. Only his eyes had their steady gaze of untroubled brave resolution. He rode up to the Major and reported the number of the men and horses killed and wounded that night at the wagon-lines. “It was the bombing planes did it,” he said; “they were right on top of us. We’re short of gunners now, so I had to bring Suzette.”