Topping a little rise, the moon came out bright, and away ahead the silver ribbon of the Souchez gleamed for an instant; the bare poles that once had been Bouvigny Wood were behind us, and to the right, to the left, a pulverized ruin where houses had stood.  Blofeld told me this was what was left of the village of Abalaine, which had been demolished some time before when the French held the sector.

At this point guides came out and met us to conduct us to the trenches.  The order went down the line to fall in, single file, keeping touch, no smoking and no talking, and I supposed we were about to enter a communication trench.  But no.  We swung on to a “duck walk.”  This is a slatted wooden walk built to prevent as much as possible sinking into the mud.  The ground was very soft here.

I never did know why there was no communication trench unless it was because the ground was so full of moisture.  But whatever the reason, there was none, and we were right out in the open on the duck walk.  The order for no talk seemed silly as we clattered along the boards, making a noise like a four-horse team on a covered bridge.

I immediately wondered whether we were near enough for the Boches to hear.  I wasn’t in doubt long, for they began to send over the “Berthas” in flocks.  The “Bertha” is an uncommonly ugly breed of nine-inch shell loaded with H.E.  It comes sailing over with a querulous “squeeeeeee”, and explodes with an ear-splitting crash and a burst of murky, dull-red flame.

If it hits you fair, you disappear.  At a little distance you are ripped to fragments, and a little farther off you get a case of shell-shock.  Just at the edge of the destructive area the wind of the explosion whistles by your ears, and then sucks back more slowly.

The Boches had the range of that duck walk, and we began to run.  Every now and then they would drop one near the walk, and from four to ten casualties would go down.  There was no stopping for the wounded.  They lay where they fell.  We kept on the run, sometimes on the duck walk, sometimes in the mud, for three miles.  I had reached the limit of my endurance when we came to a halt and rested for a little while at the foot of a slight incline.  This was the “Pimple”, so called on account of its rounded crest.

The Pimple forms a part of the well-known Vimy Ridge—­is a semi-detached extension of it—­and lies between it and the Souchez sector.  After a rest here we got into the trenches skirting the Pimple and soon came out on the Quarries.  This was a bowl-like depression formed by an old quarry.  The place gave a natural protection and all around the edge were dug-outs which had been built by the French, running back into the hill, some of them more than a hundred feet.

In the darkness we could see braziers glowing softly red at the mouth of each burrow.  There was a cheerful, mouth-watering smell of cookery on the air, a garlicky smell, with now and then a whiff of spicy wood smoke.