The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the front, now we are within its embrace.

It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick-skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: “That was a twelve-inch. You can tell by the report; now you’ll hear the burst.”

But the muffled thud of the burst does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: “There’ll be a bombardment tonight.”

We all listen. The front is restless. “The Tommies are firing already,” says Kropp.