During another visit I paid to this desolate region there was a "strafe" of some magnitude on. As I rode I could hear the long whistling and heavy crump of high explosives that the enemy were dropping into a village about a mile to the left, and could see the flame and smoke of the explosion. Our own guns soon began to chime in. It was quite a cheerful little show, what with the long-drawn whining of approaching Boche shells, the crash of explosions, the thud of our guns replying, and the weird, fluttering noise of our shells going over. Presently the gun duel became more and more violent. The fearful crashes of our "heavies," the groans, shrieks and whines of the shells on their message of death, the tremendous thuds of Boche explosions, and the whistling hum of shrapnel pieces flying around--all this made up a pandemonium of noise. My further progress along this road was barred by a thud amongst some ruined houses about a hundred yards in front of me, showing that the "strafe" was veering round to my direction. Deviating from this road I met some old acquaintances in the Gunners, and had tea with them in their dug-out, my horse being put up in what in pre-war days had been somebody's sitting-room. I cantered home at dusk. All this evening there has been a "hate" on--the sky alive with gun-flashes and lit up by star-shells, and the air resounding with bangings and thuddings. _February 1st, 1916._ Hereabouts we seem now to be doing ten times as much "strafing" as the Boches. This afternoon I saw at fifty yards' distance some 60-pounders (the old "Long-Toms") being fired. First, there would come a flash of flame from the muzzle, followed by an ear-splitting bang. Then the whole gun seemed to hurl itself bodily forward and slide back into position again. Meanwhile you could hear the shell tearing its way through the air with the curious shuddering, or fluttering, noise that shells make in transit. Riding north the other day I came to a place where the only sounds that could be heard were the intermittent crackle of rifle-fire mingling with the shrill tones of a woman haggling over the price of bread with an old chap who had driven out with his pony and cart from an adjacent town to sell his goods. The roof of the woman's house had mostly vanished and some of the walls were non-existent, being replaced by sandbags. A notice proclaimed that there was coffee and milk for sale within. Is it not extraordinary to encounter this sort of thing right up in the battle zone? It shows how human nature can adapt itself to the most uncustomary things. I suppose we should be the same--stick to the old home so long as there was a brick left standing.