A church tower, or even the remains of one, is an ideal place. It is, certainly, sure to be shelled periodically, but the first round is not going to hit it, and a rapid (and, for preference, carefully rehearsed) descent into a cellar or dug-out at its foot usually averts a _contretemps_. Of course, as happened once in my experience, a lucky round may carry away the stairs or ladders inside the tower below the observing officer, who then spends a _mauvis quart d'heure_ whilst the enemy leisurely shells him. It is surprising, though, how many direct hits from even heavy ordnance a tower will stand without falling. If no church is available, the tallest house or ruin that can be found must be adapted, by making a tiny slit in the wall or roof, invisible at a distance of a hundred yards or so, and rigging up a platform inside on which to sit whilst observing. A very ingenious method that I once saw employed by a French battery was to make a wooden box the exact shape and size of the chimney stack of a cottage, and painted brick red. The box was hollow and had small peep-holes cut in it. One night they skilfully removed the real stack and substituted the imitation one, which served them admirably for many months. In another case all that was left of what had been a fair-sized house was a wall facing towards the enemy. A neighbouring ruined village was ransacked for a dovecot and a long ladder. A band of amateur carpenters fitted the dovecot to the inside of the wall, as high up as possible, cut a small hole through the wall, and arranged the ladder as a means of access to it. I can vouch from personal experience for the comfort and general excellence of the completed work. Of the delights of a certain pear-tree, behind whose ample trunk was a most rickety ladder, up whose rotten rungs one climbed fearfully--the tree was about seventy yards behind our front trenches, and in full view from the German line--I will not speak. As autumn pursued its sorrowful course we watched the leaves of our tree fall off one by one, until to the prejudiced eyes of the man who had to climb into it there seemed hardly enough cover to hide a caterpillar. Finally, when an enthusiastic sportsman dumped a trench-mortar--the surest thing in the world to provoke a long-suffering enemy to fury--into a pit some twenty yards away, we shook our heads sadly and left it to its fate. It stands there still, waving its bare arms mockingly at us, but I, for one, shall not tempt its embraces until May has seen fit to dress it decently again.