7.15 a.m.—­Our fire has become noticeably hotter.  Some of us thought it had relaxed slightly after the first ten minutes.  I doubt if it really did—­probably we were growing accustomed to the sound.  There is no doubt about its increase now.  We can hear the crump, crump, crump of heavy explosives almost incessantly.  I fancy our heavy trench mortars must have joined in.

7.20 a.m.—­Another sound has suddenly joined in the uproar.  It is the rapid detonation of our lighter trench mortars.[1] I have never heard anything like this before—­the detonation of these crowds of mortars is as rapid as if it were the rattle of musketry.  Indeed, if it were not for the heavy detonation one would put it down for rifle fire.  Only eight minutes now, and the infantry goes over the parapet along the whole line.

[1] Note.—­What I took for the sound of trench mortars was almost certainly that of the British field guns.  These heavy Somme bombardments were then a novelty, and the idea that field guns could be firing like musketry did not enter one’s head.  What I took for the sound of heavy trench mortars was also, certainly, that of German shells.

7.27 a.m.—­The heaviness of the bombardment has slightly decreased.  A large number of guns must be altering range on to the German back lines in order to allow our infantry to make their attack.  The hills are gradually becoming clearer as the sun gets higher, but the haze will be far too thick for us to see them go over.

7.29 a.m.—­One minute to go.  I have not seen a single German shell burst yet.  They may be firing on our trenches; they are not on our batteries.

7.32 a.m.—­Ever so distant, but quite distinctly, under the thunder of the bombardment I can hear the sound of far-off rifle firing.

So they are into it—­and there are Germans still left in those trenches.

7.35 a.m.—­Through the bombardment I can hear the chatter of a machine-gun.  And there is a new thunder added, quite distinguishable from the previous sounds.  It is only the last minute or so that one has noticed it—­a low, ceaseless pulsation.

It is the drumming of the German artillery upon our charging infantry.  Behind that blue screen they must be in the thick of it.  God be with our men!

CHAPTER XII

THE BRITISH—­FRICOURT AND LA BOISELLE

France, July 3rd.

Yesterday three of us walked out from near the town of Albert to a hill-side within a few hundred yards of Fricourt.  And there all day, lying amongst the poppies and cornflowers, we watched the fight of the hour—­the struggle around Fricourt Wood and the attack on the village of La Boiselle.

To call these places villages conveys the idea of recognisable streets and houses.  I suppose they were villages once, as pretty as the other villages of France; each with its red roofs showing out against its dark, overshadowing woodland.  They are no more villages now than a dust-heap.  Each is a tumbled heap of broken bricks, like the remains of a Chinese den after it has been pulled down by order of the local council.  Through this heap runs a network of German trenches, here and there breaking through some still recognisable fragment of a wall.