“As a matter of fact,” says a commandant, “anybody—­or, rather, everybody did.  The general idea is after such-and-such system, the patent of which had expired, and we improved it; the breech action, with slight modification, is somebody else’s; the sighting is perhaps a little special; and so is the traversing, but, at bottom, it is only an assembly of variations and arrangements.”

That, of course, is all that Shakespeare ever got out of the alphabet.  The French Artillery make their own guns as he made his plays.  It is just as simple as that.

“There is nothing going on for the moment; it’s too misty,” said the Commandant. (I fancy that the Boche, being, as a rule methodical, amateurs are introduced to batteries in the Boche’s intervals.  At least, there are hours healthy and unhealthy which vary with each position.) “But,” the Commandant reflected a moment, “there is a place—­and a distance.  Let us say . . . " He gave a range.

The gun-servers stood back with the bored contempt of the professional for the layman who intrudes on his mysteries.  Other civilians had come that way before—­had seen, and grinned, and complimented and gone their way, leaving the gunners high up on the bleak hillside to grill or mildew or freeze for weeks and months.  Then she spoke.  Her voice was higher pitched, it seemed, than ours—­with a more shrewish tang to the speeding shell.  Her recoil was as swift and as graceful as the shrug of a French-woman’s shoulders; the empty case leaped forth and clanged against the trail; the tops of two or three pines fifty yards away nodded knowingly to each other, though there was no wind.

“They’ll be bothered down below to know the meaning of our single shot.  We don’t give them one dose at a time as a rule,” somebody laughed.

We waited in the fragrant silence.  Nothing came back from the mist that clogged the lower grounds, though no shell of this war was ever launched with more earnest prayers that it might do hurt.

Then they talked about the lives of guns; what number of rounds some will stand and others will not; how soon one can make two good guns out of three spoilt ones, and what crazy luck sometimes goes with a single shot or a blind salvo.

Lesson from the “Boche”

A shell must fall somewhere, and by the law of averages occasionally lights straight as a homing pigeon on the one spot where it can wreck most.  Then earth opens for yards around, and men must be dug out,—­some merely breathless, who shake their ears, swear, and carry on, and others whose souls have gone loose among terrors.  These have to be dealt with as their psychology demands, and the French officer is a good psychologist.  One of them said:  “Our national psychology has changed.  I do not recognize it myself.”

“What made the change?”

“The Boche.  If he had been quiet for another twenty years the world must have been his—­rotten, but all his.  Now he is saving the world.”