Far away there's a
ridge and a row of charred trees, which stand out gloomily etched
against the sky. The sky is grey and damp and sickly; fleecy balls of
smoke burst against it--shrapnel. You wonder whether they've caught
anybody. Overhead you hear the purr of engines--a flight of aeroplanes
breasting the clouds. Behind you observation balloons hang stationary,
like gigantic tethered sausages.
If you're riding, you dismount before you reach the ridge and send
your horse back; the Hun country is in sight on the other side. You
creep up cautiously, taking careful note of where the shells are
falling. There's nothing to be gained by walking into a barrage; you
make up your mind to wait. The rate of fire has slackened; you make a
dash for it. From the ridge there's a pathway which runs down through
the blackened wood; two men going alone are not likely to be
spotted. Not likely, but--. There's an old cement Hun gun-pit to the
right; you take cover in it. "Pretty wide awake," you say to your
companion, "to have picked us out as quickly as that."
From this sheltered hiding you have time to gaze about you. The roof
of the gun-pit is smashed in at one corner. Our heavies did that when
the Hun held the ridge. It was good shooting. A perfect warren of
tunnels and dug-outs leads off in every direction. They were built by
the forced labour of captive French civilians. We have found requests
from them scrawled in pencil on the boards: "I, Jean Ribeau, was alive
and well on May 12th, 1915.
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