whether it was Briton or German
lying on the other side of a tree-trunk, they had the satisfaction of
possessing four big guns which the Germans had been unable to withdraw,
and had ascertained also that the Germans had a strong position
protected by barbed wire at the northern end of the woods.

"This will require a little thinking," as one English officer said, "but
of course we shall take it."

The purchase on Mametz and the occupation of Bailiff's Wood, the
Quadrangle, La Boisselle and Ovillers-la-Boisselle brought the circle
of advancing British nearer to Contalmaison, which sat up on the hills
in a sea of chalk seams. Contalmaison was being gradually "softened" by
the artillery. The chateau was not yet all down, but after each bite by
a big shell less of the white walls was visible when the clouds of smoke
from the explosion lifted. Bit by bit the guns would get the chateau,
just as bit by bit a stonemason chips a block down to the proper
dimensions to fit it into place in a foundation.

A visit to La Boisselle on the way to Contalmaison justified the
expectation as to what was in store for Contalmaison. I saw the
blackened and shell-whittled trunks of two trees standing in La
Boisselle. Once with many others they had given shade in the gardens of
houses; but there were no traces of houses now except as they were mixed
with the earth. The village had been hammered into dust. Yet some
dugouts still survived. Keeping at it, the British working around these
had eventually forced the surrender of the garrison, who could not raise
their heads to fire without being met by a bullet or a bomb-burst from
the watchful besiegers.

"Slow work, but they had to come out," was the graphic phrase of one of
the captors, "and they looked fed up, too. They had even run out of
cigars"--which settled it.

Oh, those light German cigars! Sometimes I believe that they were the
real mainstay of the German organization. Cigars gone, spirit gone! I
have seen an utterly weary German prisoner as he delivered his papers to
his captor bring out his last cigar and thrust it into his mouth to
forestall its being taken as tribute, with his captor saying with
characteristic British cheerfulness, "Keep it, Bochy! It smells too much
like a disinfectant for me, but let's have your steel helmet"--the
invariable prize demanded by the victor.

The British had already been in Contalmaison, but did not stay. "Too
many German machine guns and too muc