That night under cover of darkness I drew back the division to the newly prepared lines.  We got away easily, for the enemy was busy with his own affairs.  I suspected a relief by fresh troops.

There was no time to lose, and I can tell you I toiled to get things straight before dawn.  I would have liked to send my own fellows back to rest, but I couldn’t spare them yet.  I wanted them to stiffen the fresh lot, for they were veterans.  The new position was arranged on the same principles as the old front which had been broken on March 21st.  There was our forward zone, consisting of an outpost line and redoubts, very cleverly sited, and a line of resistance.  Well behind it were the trenches which formed the battle-zone.  Both zones were heavily wired, and we had plenty of machine-guns; I wish I could say we had plenty of men who knew how to use them.  The outposts were merely to give the alarm and fall back to the line of resistance which was to hold out to the last.  In the forward zone I put the freshest of my own men, the units being brought up to something like strength by the details returning from leave that the Corps had commandeered.  With them I put the American engineers, partly in the redoubts and partly in companies for counter-attack.  Blenkiron had reported that they could shoot like Dan’l Boone, and were simply spoiling for a fight.  The rest of the force was in the battle-zone, which was our last hope.  If that went the Boche had a clear walk to Amiens.  Some additional field batteries had been brought up to support our very weak divisional artillery.  The front was so long that I had to put all three of my emaciated brigades in the line, so I had nothing to speak of in reserve.  It was a most almighty gamble.

We had found shelter just in time.  At 6.30 next day—­for a change it was a clear morning with clouds beginning to bank up from the west—­the Boche let us know he was alive.  He gave us a good drenching with gas shells which didn’t do much harm, and then messed up our forward zone with his trench mortars.  At 7.20 his men began to come on, first little bunches with machine-guns and then the infantry in waves.  It was clear they were fresh troops, and we learned afterwards from prisoners that they were Bavarians—­6th or 7th, I forget which, but the division that hung us up at Monchy.  At the same time there was the sound of a tremendous bombardment across the river.  It looked as if the main battle had swung from Albert and Montdidier to a direct push for Amiens.  I have often tried to write down the events of that day.  I tried it in my report to the Corps; I tried it in my own diary; I tried it because Mary wanted it; but I have never been able to make any story that hung together.  Perhaps I was too tired for my mind to retain clear impressions, though at the time I was not conscious of special fatigue.  More likely it is because the fight itself was so confused, for nothing happened according to the books and the orderly soul of the