I wore the mask as long as I could, which was about half an hour. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of an operation I once had, the details of which I would set down here if I had time. Without it, I found, I could see things much more plainly. Through strong field glasses the British trenches were discernible. The German front line was behind a ridge, two hundred yards away⁠—from the British, not us⁠—and invisible. No drive was in progress, but there was the steady boom, boom of heavy guns, the scary siren, with a bang at the end, of grenades, and an occasional solo in a throaty baritone which our captain told us belonged to Mr. Trench Mortar.

The firing was all in one direction⁠—toward the northeast. Fritz was not replying, probably because he had no breath to waste in casual repartee.