ction of the line our own plans were maturing,
which were to bear fruit five weeks later in the brilliant capture of
that Vimy ridge I had seen on March 2, filling the blue middle distance,
from the bare upland of Notre Dame de Lorette. If on the Somme the anvil
was to some extent escaping from the hammer, in the coming battle of
Arras the hammer was to take its full revenge.

These things, however, were still hidden from all but the few, and in
the first days of March the Germans had not yet begun to retire in front
of the French line further south. The Somme advance was still the centre
of things, and Bapaume had not yet fallen. As we drove on towards Albert
we knew that we should be soon close behind our own guns, and within
range of the enemy's.

No one who has seen it in war-time will ever forget the market-place of
Albert--the colossal heaps of wreck that fill the centre of it; the new,
pretentious church, rising above the heaps, a brick-and-stucco building
of the worst neo-Catholic taste, which has been so gashed and torn and
broken, while still substantially intact, that all its mean and tawdry
ornament has disappeared in a certain strange dignity of ruin; and last,
the hanging Virgin, holding up the Babe above the devastation below, in
dumb protest to God and man. The gilded statue, which now hangs at right
angles to the tower, has, after its original collapse under shell-fire,
been fixed in this position by the French Engineers; and it is to be
hoped that when the church comes to be rebuilt the figure will be left
as it is. There is something extraordinarily significant and dramatic in
its present attitude. Whatever artistic defects the statue may have are
out of sight, and it seems as it hangs there, passionately hovering,
above the once busy centre of a prosperous town, to be the very symbol
and voice of France calling the world to witness.

A few more minutes, and we are through the town, moving slowly along the
Albert-Bapaume road, that famous road which will be a pilgrims' way for
generations to come.

"To other folk," writes an officer quoted by Mr. Buchan in his _Battle
of the Somme_, "and on the maps, one place seems just like another, I
suppose; but to us--La Boisselle and Ovillers--my hat!"

To walk about in those hells! I went along the "sunken road" all the way
to Contalmaison. Talk about sacred ground! The new troops coming up now
go barging across in the most light-hearted way. It means no mo