and making covered ways that lead
hundreds of yards back from the firing line into safety.

And at the end of one of these I sit at this moment; away on the rear
slope of the hill which is our fortress. The sun is sinking far away
down the valley of the Aisne, and the river flickers in the distance
between lines of trees, while the little villages at the foot of the
slopes are gradually losing themselves in the evening mist. How lovely
to sit here in time of peace! Could one bear it after this, I wonder?
With all the beauty, there are sad things around me; signs of war every
way I look. To the right, a few yards off, are new-cut graves, and they
are putting up headstones, made by a reservist who is a mason in private
life. One man was killed yesterday, and we buried him after dark. There
was no service, because we had neither light nor book; but I said the
Lord's Prayer before the earth was thrown in, thinking there could be no
harm.

Then away across a bend of the valley are more of our trenches, with the
German parapets 200 yards away beyond. And over these our shells are
bursting, fired by guns on the slope of the hill beneath me; they
whistle softly as they skim through the air over my head, and I hear the
burst as they land. Further away to the west is one of the enemy's
strongholds, and there bigger shells are bursting, throwing up clouds of
black smoke and dust. These pass by with a louder purring whistle like
the sound of surplus air escaping from the pipes of an organ in church.
They come from our big guns up in the woods across the river, hidden
from view. And always up in the sky the German aeroplanes circle round
and round, seeking for the guns, their engines buzzing and the sun
shining on their wings. Now and then they dash away, perhaps to carry
news, perhaps because a British or French machine has come upon the
scene. When they spot our positions they drop little silvery packets,
which unfold and show their gunners where to shoot. Sometimes they drop
bombs, but these do little harm. At times the weather is foggy, so
that the aeroplanes can do nothing at all, and warfare becomes suddenly
ten years out of date.

[Illustration: ARCHDUKE FREDERICK,

Commander in Chief of Austrian Armies Operating Against the Russians.

(_Photo from Paul Thompson._)]

[Illustration: DR. VON BETHMANN-HOLLWEG, THE GERMAN CHANCELLOR,

In His Field Uniform, Showing the Helmet in Its New Weatherproof Cover.

(_Photo by Br