I slipped out and down the slight incline, and presently found
myself in a little valley. The grass was rank and high, sometimes
nearly up to my chin, and the ground was slimy and treacherous. I
slipped into several shell holes and was almost over my head in the
stagnant, smelly water.

I made the river all right, but there was no bridge or net in
sight. The river was not over ten feet wide and there was supposed
to be a footbridge of two planks where the net was.

I got back into the grass and made my way downstream. Sliding
gently through the grass, I kept catching my feet in something hard
that felt like roots; but there were no trees in the neighborhood.
I reached down and groped in the grass and brought up a human rib.
The place was full of them, and skulls. Stooping, I could see them,
grinning up out of the dusk, hundreds of them. I learned afterwards
that this was called the Valley of Death. Early in the war several
thousand Zouaves had perished there, and no attempt had been made
to bury them.

After getting out of the skeletons, I scouted along downstream and
presently heard the low voices of Germans. Evidently they had found
the net and planned to get the messages first. Creeping to the edge
of the grass, I peeped out. I was opposite the bottle trap. I could
dimly make out the forms of two men standing on the nearer end of
the plank bridge. They were, I should judge, about ten yards away,
and they hadn't heard me. I got out a Mills, pulled the pin, and
pitched it. The bomb exploded, perhaps five feet this side of the
men. One dropped, and the other ran.

After a short wait I ran over to the German. I searched him for
papers, found none, and rolled him into the river.

After a few days in the Quarries we were moved to what was known as
the Warren, so called because the works resembled a rabbit warren.
This was on the lower side and to the left end of Vimy Ridge, and
was extra dangerous. It did seem as though each place was worse
than the last. The Warren was a regular network of trenches,
burrows, and funk holes, and we needed them all.

The position was downhill from the Huns, and they kept sending over
and down a continuous stream of "pip-squeaks", "whiz-bangs", and
"minnies." The "pip-squeak" is a shell that starts with a silly
"pip", goes on with a sillier "squeeeeee", and goes off with a
man's-size bang.

The "whiz-bang" starts with a rough whirr like a flushing cock
partridge, and goes off on