soft, but I'd give ten years of my life to know _where_. Well, there is nothing for it--"No. 1, repeat, fire!" "No. 1 fired, sir!" The whistle again, then right in line with the target, and hiding it, a bright flash, a spout of earth and a cloud of black smoke, followed by a peculiar, sharp crash, and the hell of doubt gives way to the heaven of satisfaction. Such are the delights of observation. And variously the excitement infects the blood of the observer. One will sit far back from his window, lest prying eyes should detect him through it, and give his orders slowly and methodically, weighing each carefully and making elaborate calculations the while, and occasionally exhorting the battery to care and deliberation. Another will thrust a telescope through a chink between two sandbags so that it shines like a heliograph in the morning sun and one wonders if some well-disposed angel has smitten the enemy with blindness for that every battery within range does not open fire on him. He, meanwhile, oblivious of such minor dangers, roars contradictory orders as through a megaphone, calling on the inhabitants of Tophet with strange formulæ because his orders are not obeyed before he gives them. I have seen a French Territorial battery in action for the first time in their lives, Mons. le capitaine subdued, almost tearful, but resolved to die in his O.P. as befits a soldier. His telephonists and assistants (he appeared to have dozens) equally anxious to see the fray, festoon themselves all over the building, hanging out of windows, clambering on to the roof, expressing their delight at the top of their voices. Eventually he restores some degree of order, and, rushing to the telephone, sweeps aside the operators, and gives the word himself. "Tirez, tirez, pour l'honneur de la belle France!" The shot falls apparently in a totally different direction to where he anticipates. Again he rushes to the instrument, more perhaps in sorrow than in anger, and demands the presence of the section commander. "Mon lieutenant!" he says, "ce n'est pas juste, c'est épouvantable! Je me sens brisé! Nom d'un nom, que vous êtes maladroit! Dirigez la pièce encore vous même!" He finishes his series at last, and as he turns to go, he salutes me gravely, saying, "Au revoir, monsieur, j'aimerais bien travailler ici à coté de vous, mais, hélas! c'est fort impossible. Dans cette observatoire il y en a toujours de bruit!" It must not for a moment be supposed that I speak disparagingly of the French gunners. They are, as a matter of fact, far better artillerists than ourselves, and we have much to learn from them. Possibly they lack something of our insular calm, as we certainly lack the vivid power of imagination and discernment that contributes very largely to their success. For this same calm the British gunner is hard to beat. On one occasion a heavy shell hit an O.P. fair and square, bringing it down in a heap of ruins. The observer, who by some