For some unexplained and mysterious reason many of the German shells do not explode. Whether this is from faulty workmanship or defective fuses or materials we do not know, but it causes the _poilus_ much amusement. There will be the whine of an _arrivée_ and a dull thud as it strikes the ground, but no explosion. Every Frenchman present immediately roars with laughter and shouts, “_Rôti! Rôti!_” We crawl up the hill, the road luckily having escaped injury during the afternoon, and at length reach the hospital. Then, much lightened, we start back. Coasting slowly down the hill we have a perfect opportunity to observe the horizon. The sky tonight is softly radiant, a velvety black with myriads of brilliant stars in the upper heavens. Opposite us is another hill, crowned with trees which break gently into the skyline. Above these the sky flashes and sparkles in iridescent glory. The thundering batteries light up everything with brilliant flashes, and the star-shells springing up over No Man’s Land hang for an instant high in the air with dazzling brilliancy, and then fading, drift slowly earthward. The artillery signals (Verrey Lights, rockets carrying on their sticks one, two, three, and four lights) dart up everywhere. A raider purrs overhead, and golden bursts of shrapnel crack in the sky. All merge together, first one, then another standing forth to catch the eye for a brief second, the kaleidoscopic brilliancy lifting one up out of the depths of the mire to forget for a moment why these lights flare—treacherous will o’ the wisps leading men on to death—and one sees only the wonderful beauty of the scene: a picture impressed on the memory which makes all seem worth while. One sight of these causes the discomforts and dangers of the day’s work to fade, and they become a symbol—a pillar of fire leading on to the victory that is coming when Right shall have conquered Might, and the tortured world can again breathe freely. * * * * * IT is night, and the chill mist has settled close to the ground. It is cold and damp, but the front is always cold and damp so no one comments on it. We are several feet underground and that augments the chill somewhat, but as here one lives underground he does not think of that. There is a little breeze outside, for the burlap that hangs at the foot of the stairs leading to the outer world quivers, and the lone candle flickers uncertainly, casting weird shadows from the black steel roof on the sleeping forms. The sides of the _abri_ are lined with bunks, wooden frames covered with wire netting, upon which lie sprawled _brancardiers_, _poilus_, and in one an American has managed to locate himself quite comfortably. The _abri_ is short, and the few bunks are at a premium.