enemy
and had looked right into the German trenches. Conversations were of
constant occurrence. "How is your bloody Ross Rifle?" a hoarse German
voice would enquire. "Stick your nose up and see" would go back the
prompt reply.

March 10th was the day set for the beginning of the battle which will
go down in history as the battle of Neuve Chapelle. The village of
Neuve Chapelle was just like every other Franco-Fleming village on the
firing line, a huddle of houses partly unroofed by shell fire,
deserted by the populace, and shunned by the soldiers. It had been at
one time a smart village of two-storey brick houses with red tiled
roofs. It possessed the typical church and graveyard such as are found
in these villages. Almost every second house was a wine or beer saloon
called an "estament." There were butcher shops, millinery shops and
shops where they mended shoes. But the British rush, which in October
had driven back the German lines beyond Armentieres, Aubers and
Fromelles, had left the Germans in possession of Neuve Chapelle. They
had a lot of stout-hearted rogues holding on there who would not let
go, so Neuve Chapelle formed the apex of a salient in the British
trenches which weakened our line north so much that later on we had to
give up good ground south of Lille in order to straighten and
consolidate along the line of the River Layes for the hard winter
campaign.

Late in December some one in the War Office thought that we had given
up too much ground about Fromelles and Armentieres, so an attack was
ordered which resulted in nothing beyond the killing of a great many
Highlanders, Gordons, Black Watch, Argyles, and virtually destroying a
Brigade of Guards. But nothing came of all this, and it is, as I
suppose as Rudyard Kipling would say, "another story." Yes, and a "top
hole" one at that, but it does not come within my province to tell it.

Now we were going to drive the Germans out of this salient and begin
the spring cleaning up. When we speak of towns and villages, please do
not get any idea of distance as in Canada or America in your heads.
There is a town or village in Flanders at every cross road. The "town
siter" has not been abroad here selling lots for miles about every
hamlet, so the result is that a town of three or four thousand people
will happen at every cross road, all within a diameter of a quarter of
a mile. As for the roads and streets, they follow the game trails
haunted by the cave dwell