The road crosses first our own old front line, then the German, over both of which substantial bridges had been built directly after the advance. It was not until he had crossed our own line that the cost of the battle became evident to him. Then he began to understand. Between the lines a burial party was at work, busy with the task of identifying and interring our own dead. Behind the German line the operation of clearing the battlefield had scarcely begun. Here the dead lay thick, our own and the enemy's in inextricable confusion. Here was a group of three or four, showing where a well-timed shrapnel had burst, there four or five in a line, stricken down as they charged by rifle fire from some fiercely-held support trench. And everywhere, mingling with the dead, were all the many insignia of war, rifles, ammunition, tins of beef, biscuits, cases of bombs, some unopened, some with their contents scattered round them, everything that is carried forward in a modern battle. At Les Cabarets itself, which is in reality the junction of the Lens-Béthune and Grenay-Hulluch roads, and which lies a few hundred yards south-east of the Lens Road Redoubt, the struggle seemed to have been fiercer. It is probable that the ruins of the houses that once stood at the cross-road had been held by a detachment of the enemy, for lying round them were a heap of dead Germans, their rifles in many cases still in their hands, and about these in a narrow circle the bodies of our attacking troops, some lying as they had fired, their legs spread out, their rifles fallen from their shoulders and their heads resting on them, as though an angel of sleep had touched them even as they pulled the trigger. Close by, two horses bearing the brand of the broad arrow were quietly grazing on the rank grass that covered the fallow land, their broken harness still hanging on their backs, evidently the team of a shell-shattered wagon that lay near by. My friend was tempted to pause and investigate further, but a dozen bullets whizzing by quickly convinced him that the locality was not healthy, and he made haste upon his way. Nor was he more lucky with the track that led from here towards Loos. Some persevering sniper evidently regarded him as fair game, and after this enthusiast had displayed his marksmanship by narrowly missing him twice in quick succession, my friend abandoned the field to him and took to a communication trench that ran in the required direction. He says that he hopes never to take a more hideous walk. The trench was literally paved with dead Germans--it must have been used as a line of defence against the advance of the 47th Division--some lying on their backs with their eyes staring heavenwards, others horribly buried in the thick clay that lay in the lower stretches of the trench, so that his attention was only called to their presence by a sudden dreadful yielding beneath his feet. They lay too thick for it to be possible