On July 17th I stood in a tent by a staff-officer who was directing a group of heavy guns supporting the 3rd Division. He was tired, as I could see by the black lines under his eyes and tightly drawn lips. On a camp-table in front of him, upon which he leaned his elbows, there was a telephone apparatus, and the little bell kept ringing as we talked. Now and then a shell burst in the field outside the tent, and he raised his head and said: “They keep crumping about here. Hope they won’t tear this tent to ribbons.⁠ ⁠… That sounds like a gas-shell.”

Then he turned to the telephone again and listened to some voice speaking.

“Yes, I can hear you. Yes, go on. ‘Our men seen leaving High Wood.’ Yes. ‘Shelled by our artillery.’ Are you sure of that? I say, are you sure they were our men? Another message. Well, carry on. ‘Men digging on road from High Wood southeast to Longueval.’ Yes, I’ve got that. ‘They are our men and not Boches.’ Oh, hell!⁠ ⁠… Get off the line. Get off the line, can’t you?⁠ ⁠… ‘Our men and not Boches.’ Yes, I have that. ‘Heavily shelled by our guns.’ ”