While the extra places were being laid we went to the brow of the hill.  Across the valley at the foot of a wooded ridge were the British trenches.  The ground rose in front of them, thickly covered with trees, to the German position on the ridge.

“It looks from here like a very uncomfortable position,” I said.  “The German position is better, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said General H——­ grimly.  “But we shall take that hill before long.”

I am not sure, and my many maps do not say, but there is little doubt in my mind that the hill in question is the now celebrated Hill 60, of which so much has been published.

As we looked across shells were bursting round the church tower of Messines, and the batteries beneath were sending out ear-splitting crashes of noise.  Ypres, less than three miles away, but partly hidden in mist, was echoing the bombardment.  And to complete the pandemonium of sound, as we turned, a mitrailleuse in the windmill opened fire behind us.

“Practice!” said General H——­ as I started.  “It is noisy here, I’m afraid.”

We went through the muddy farmyard back to the house.  The staff was waiting and we sat down at once to luncheon at a tiny pine table drawn up before a window.  It was not a good luncheon.  The French wine was like vinegar, the food the ordinary food of the peasant whose house it was.  But it was a cheerful meal in spite of the food, and in spite of a boil on General H——­’s neck.  The marvel of a woman being there seemed to grow, not diminish, as the meal went on.

“Next week,” said General H——­, “we are to have two parties of correspondents here.  The penny papers come first, and later on the ha’pennies!”

That brought the conversation, as usual, to the feeling about the war in America.  Like all the other officers I had met, these men were anxious to have things correctly reported in America, being satisfied that the true story of the war would undoubtedly influence any wavering of public opinion in favour of the Allies.

One of the officers was a Canadian, and for his benefit somebody told the following story, possibly by now familiar to America.

Some of the Canadian troops took with them to England a bit of the dash and impatience of discipline of the great Northwest.  The story in question is of a group of soldiers at night passing a sentry, who challenges them: 

“Halt!  Who goes there?”

“Black Watch.”

“Advance, Black Watch, and all’s well.”

The next group is similarly challenged: 

“Halt!  Who goes there?”

“Cameronians.”

“Advance, Cameronians.”

The third group comes on.

“Halt!  Who goes there?”

“What the devil is that to you?”

“Advance, Canadians!”

In the burst of mirth that followed the Canadian officer joined.  Then he told an anecdote also: