main road and an old town, seething with all the stir of
war. We come upon a crowded market-place, and two huge convoys passing
each other in the narrow street beyond--one, an ammunition column, into
which our motor humbly fits itself as best it can, by order of the
officer in charge of the column, and the other, a long string of
magnificent lorries belonging to the Flying Corps, which defiles past us
on the left. The inhabitants of the town, old men, women and children,
stand to watch the hubbub, with amused friendly faces. On we go, for a
time, in the middle of the convoy. The great motor lorries filled with
ammunition hem us in till the town is through, and a long hill is
climbed. At the top of it we are allowed to draw out, and motor slowly
past long lines of troops on the march; first, R.E.'s with their store
waggons, large and small; then a cyclist detachment; a machine-gun
detachment; field kitchens, a white goat lying lazily on the top of one
of them; mules, heavily laden; and Lewis guns in little carts. Then
infantry marching briskly in the keen air, while along other roads,
visible to east and west, we see other columns converging. A division,
apparently, on the march. The physique of the men, their alert and
cheerful looks, strike me particularly. This pitiless war seems to have
revealed to England herself the quality of her race. Though some credit
must be given to the physical instructors of the Army!--who in the last
twelve months especially have done a wonderful work.

At last we turn out of the main road, and the endless columns pass away
into the distance. Again, a railway line in process of doubling; beyond,
a village, which seems to be mainly occupied by an Army Medical
detachment; then two large Casualty Clearing Stations, and a Divisional
Dressing Station. Not many wounded here at present; the section of the
line from which we are only some ten miles distant has been
comparatively quiet of late. But what preparations everywhere! What
signs of the coming storm! Hardly a minute passes as we speed along
without its significant sight; horse-lines, Army Service depots bursting
with stores,--a great dump of sandbags--another of ammunition.

And as I look out at the piles of shells, I think of the most recent
figures furnished me by the Ministry of Munitions. Last year, when the
Somme offensive began, and when I was writing _England's Effort_, the
_weekly_ output of eighteen-pounder shells was 17-1/2 time