pressively regular and determined in the sound. It was not a sharp crash or bang—a cannon shot does not sound that way until you are quite close to it. It was a distinct bass ring, such as a great drum might give at a distance through a forest. It was immensely convincing of the might of these invisible giants who were slamming their way all up the valley, clanging the armor of the Hun.
Then, I got nearer, and the clang lost its musical metallic quality and became a roar like the sudden collapse of a brick house. I went on and left the guns behind and on each side. Ah, here was the little village of Montigny, just captured by us, and there beyond was the front line.
Tat tat, tat tat tat, tat, tat tat, tat, went a machine gun feeling for its voice before it could speak sharply, and then tat tat tat tat tat tat tat and on in a torrent of sharp monosyllables. Not a nice sound, but pleasant compared to another: Whish-ish-ish-ish—pow!—the cruel whistle of a shell and a burst overhead. With shrapnel they were trying for some of our infantry resting in shallow holes on a side hill at the right. At the same time, above this hellish whistle with its quick rise, slow fall, and sickening instant of hesitation before that pow, was a fainter whistle high in the air. That was from high-explosive shells aimed at our guns over the hill crest.
