Up a knee-loosening ladder of rock, and we came out on to the green hill-top, where they first had their camp.  Among the orderly trenches, the sites of the deported tents, were rougher irregular blotches of hole—­footprints of shell.

“That gunner,” said the captain, waving his stick at Surprise Hill, “is a German.  Nobody but a German atheist would have fired on us at breakfast, lunch, and dinner the same Sunday.  It got too hot when he put one ten yards from the cook.  Anybody else we could have spared; then we had to go.”

We come to what looks like a sandbag redoubt, but in the eyes of heaven is a conning-tower.  On either side, from behind a sandbag epaulement, a 12-pounder and a Maxim thrust forth vigilant eyes.  The sandbag plating of the conning-tower was six feet thick and shoulder-high; the rivets were red earth, loose but binding; on the parapets sprouted tufts of grass, unabashed and rejoicing in the summer weather.  Against the parapet leaned a couple of men with the clean-cut, clean-shaven jaw and chin of the naval officer, and half-a-dozen bearded bluejackets.  They stared hard out of sun-puckered eyes over the billows of kopje and veldt.

Forward we looked down on the one 4.7; aft we looked up to the other.  On bow and beam and quarter we looked out to the enemy’s fleet.  Deserted Pepworth’s was on the port-bow, Gun Hill, under Lombard’s Kop, on the starboard, Bulwan abeam, Middle Hill astern, Surprise Hill on the port-quarter.

Every outline was cut in adamant.

The Helpmakaar Ridge, with its little black ants a-crawl on their hill, was crushed flat beneath us.

A couple of vedettes racing over the pale green plain northward looked as if we could jump on to their heads.  We could have tossed a biscuit over to Lombard’s Kop.  The great yellow emplacement of their fourth big piece on Gun Hill stood up like a Spit-head Fort.  Through the big telescope that swings on its pivot in the centre of the tower you could see that the Boers were loafing round it dressed in dirty mustard-colour.

“Left-hand Gun Hill fired, sir,” said a bluejacket, with his eyes glued to binoculars.  “At the balloon”—­and presently we heard the weary pinions of the shell, and saw the little puff of white below.

“Ring up Mr Halsey,” said the captain.

Then I was aware of a sort of tarpaulin cupboard under the breastwork, of creeping trails of wire on the ground, and of a couple of sappers.

The corporal turned down his page of ‘Harmsworth’s Magazine,’ laid it on the parapet, and dived under the tarpaulin.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling! buzzed the telephone bell.

The gaunt up-towering mountains, the long, smooth, deadly guns—­and the telephone bell!

The mountains and the guns went out, and there floated in that roaring office of the ‘Daily Mail’ instead, and the warm, rustling vestibule of the playhouse on a December night.  This is the way we make war now; only for the instant it was half joke and half home-sickness.  Where were we?  What were we doing?