[Footnote 12: Captain A. P. Peaker, M.C., of the K.R.R. (son of Mr. F. Peaker, of the _Morning Post_), who was a contemporary of Paul Jones's at Dulwich, and won an Oxford classical exhibition in December, 1914.] _September 14th, 1916._ Last night I was detailed to go up with a working party engaged in operations on the very site of the last great battle. The whole business took place under cover of darkness. After an hour and a half's trudging, up hill and down dale, we got to the allotted spot and began our work. The night was alive with noises--ear-splitting reports of big guns, the shrieks and whistles of shells in transit, and the rat-tat-tat of machine-guns. Now and again the darkness would be illuminated by the glare of star-shells. I think I mentioned to you before the mournful desolation of this war-scarred countryside--land without grass, without trees, without houses, nothing more now than a wilderness, with yawning shell craters innumerable, and here and there blackened and branchless stumps that used to be trees. We were near the site of a village famous in the annals of British arms. A single brick of that village would be worth its weight in gold as a souvenir. As we worked in the darkness the air was polluted by a horrible stench, and as soon as one's eyes got accustomed to the gloom there became visible silent twisted forms that used to be men. But enough; I dare not tell you of the ghastly scenes on that historic battlefield; it would give you nightmare for weeks to come if I did. Out here one gets into a callous state, in which these things, while unpleasant, are scarcely noticed in the whirl and confusion of events. Personally at the time, in traversing this battlefield, I was slightly horrified at first, but chiefly conscious only of the frightful odour of mortality. It is on thinking the thing over in retrospect and with cold blood that the real sense of horror begins to creep into one's soul. Such is the so-called "ennobling influence of war"! As I went over this grim battlefield, with all its tragic sights, I reflected bitterly on the triumph of twentieth-century civilisation. Our work occupied us about five hours, and we trekked for home before dawn. Through the night there was movement and activity--ration parties, walking wounded, stretcher-bearers, reliefs, all moving silently in the darkness like so many phantoms. I have picked up a number of souvenirs from the old Boche trenches, including a Boche steel helmet, with a shrapnel hole in the side as big as a crown-piece. Its wearer must have "gone West" instanter. _September 21st, 1916._