by man they appeared and disappeared from view over a rise in
the ground.

Those who had fallen in the desperate struggle of the previous week
lay yet unburied. Friend and foe alike shared the shelter of the
heavens, clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of death.
There are times when the sight of death excuses the quivering step and
the irrepressible sob from the hearts of those who pass onward to
brave a similar fate.

The Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the wrath of nations, that
long, winding Valley of Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay
side by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, marked the line
where the fury of nations found its expression, like the scar of a
devil's vengeance.

As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted and mutilated, limbless
and torn, some half buried in debris--here and there lying doubled in
unnatural positions, while others yet, seemed to be clutching at some
mortal wound--I felt like one who fearfully treads into the vortex of
Dante's inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but a hell far
more dreadful than I had ever imagined it to be.

After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found the spot we were to
occupy, and, to our intense relief, the ---- Battalion, London
Regiment, were in possession.

After the usual formalities of the relieving and taking over of the
line of shell-holes which marked the position, I stopped for a final
word with one of the ---- officers:

"How many casualties?" I asked.

"About fifty in two days--bit tough, eh?"

"Been attacked, then?"

"No; shelled like billyho. They've got the range nicely."

"Where's the Boche?"

"Don't quite know; somewhere in front. About eight hundred yards away
there's a trench which forms three sides of a square, each side about
three hundred yards, with the open side resting on Leuze Wood, and the
lower end extending into the wood."

"Fritz there?"

"In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is a bit of a mystery.
The part that extends into the wood the ---- Regiment are holding; but
the rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, that's what I think.
Awkward position! Well, cheer oh!"

After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the rising mist to take a
view of my surroundings. There, on the right, was a high table-land,
with a frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combles, which slowly
emerged, house by house, from the rising mist.

In the trench the right man of my comp