It was not more than a mile we had to cover, but it was rough going, bad going.  Here war had had its grim way without interruption.  The face of the earth had been cut to pieces.  Its surface had been smashed to a pulpy mass.  The ground had been plowed, over and over, by a rain of shells—­German and British.  What a planting there had been that spring, and what a plowing!  A harvest of death it had been that had been sown—­and the reaper had not waited for summer to come, and the Harvest moon.  He had passed that way with his scythe, and where we passed now he had taken his terrible, his horrid, toll.

At the foot of the ridge I saw men fighting for the first time—­ actually fighting, seeking to hurt an enemy.  It was a Canadian battery we saw, and it was firing, steadily and methodically, at the Huns.  Up to now I had seen only the vast industrial side of war, its business and its labor.  Now I was, for the first time, in touch with actual fighting.  I saw the guns belching death and destruction, destined for men miles away.  It was high angle fire, of course, directed by observers in the air.

But even that seemed part of the sheer, factory-like industry of war.  There was no passion, no coming to grips in hot blood, here.  Orders were given by the battery commander and the other officers as the foreman in a machine shop might give them.  And the busy artillerymen worked like laborers, too, clearing their guns after a salvo, loading them, bringing up fresh supplies of ammunition.  It was all methodical, all a matter of routine.

“Good artillery work is like that,” said Captain Godfrey, when I spoke to him about it.  “It’s a science.  It’s all a matter of the higher mathematics.  Everything is worked out to half a dozen places of decimals.  We’ve eliminated chance and guesswork just as far as possible from modern artillery actions.”

But there was something about it all that was disappointing, at first sight.  It let you down a bit.  Only the guns themselves kept up the tradition.  Only they were acting as they should, and showing a proper passion and excitement.  I could hear them growling ominously, like dogs locked in their kennel when they would be loose and about, and hunting.  And then they would spit, angrily.  They inflamed my imagination, did those guns; they satisfied me and my old-fashioned conception of war and fighting, more than anything else that I had seen had done.  And it seemed to me that after they had spit out their deadly charge they wiped their muzzles with red tongues of flame, satisfied beyond all words or measure with what they had done.

We were rising now, as we walked, and getting a better view of the country that lay beyond.  And so I came to understand a little better the value of a height even so low and insignificant as Vimy Ridge in that flat country.  While the Germans held it they could overlook all our positions, and all the advantage of natural placing had been to them.  Now, thanks to the Canadians, it was our turn, and we were looking down.