It was on the bank of the Somme Canal in the early morning, Peronne in the distance, and a light railway track at our feet. The place was Brie. We had arrived there the previous night.

The railway track was torn and twisted, rails sticking into the air at oblique angles, sleepers charred, chairs smashed, the bed of the four-foot way churned and broken, with the waggons and trucks which once ran along them smashed to fragments, thrown hither and thither, out into the canal on the right or into the fields on the left side of the line. Looking at the riverscape one could see in the near distance a broken bridge with the sluggish water rippling lazily round the buttresses which yet remained, and near at hand, though the day was chilly, three naked soldiers stood on a boat making ready to dive into the oily water.

On the other side of the Somme canal was a spread of marshland on which could be seen lines of duckboards running hither and thither, round pools and clumps of osiers, but all going in the same direction, towards the town of Peronne. It was on August 29 that the German rearguards were driven back across this portion of the Somme. British troops then seized several crossings of the canal in this locality, but the marshes beyond being impassable it was found impracticable to cross and seize Peronne.

It was therefore decided to turn the Somme barrier by an attack from the north, and to do this entailed seizing the steep promontory of Mont St. Quentin. It was from the north across a thousand yards of level pasture land pitted with shell holes and criss-crossed with trenches and lines of wire entanglements that the Australians made a famous advance, fighting all the way and seizing Mont St. Quentin. The task was a herculean one, adding undying glory to the men who accomplished it.

Our party was allowed to visit Mont St. Quentin and standing on its summit I saw the field across which the Australians made their advance. Looking from a German observation post on the promontory I could see the green field, smooth as the cover of a book, lying in front of me. Nothing could escape a vigilant eye on its broad expanse. Shorn of grass a rabbit could be seen if it crawled across the levels. It was here that the German machine gunners had their nests, and it was here that an observation post sunk into the rock gave a complete field of observation to the watcher. The post was cunningly made with a ladder leading down a shaft ten feet in depth. At the bottom was a field telephone with wires running back to battalion headquarters. All that the observer had to do was to clamber up the ladder, take stock of the field in front, go back again and 'phone his report to headquarters in Peronne.

The town, although of little industrial import, has a history dating back to the days of Clovis II. It is the burial-place of Charles the Simple, who died of starvation in a dungeon in the castle of Peronne, which castle was also the prison of Louis XI for some time. But the castle is now no more, the Germans have slashed it to pieces. The church of St. Jean, built in 1509, is also ground to dust. In 1870 it was greatly damaged by the Boche when he laid siege to the place, but it was restored afterwards. Now, however, it is beyond restoration.

A famous incident was still, prior to this war, celebrated by the natives of Peronne. The town was once besieged by Charles V, and a woman named Marie FourÉ greatly distinguished herself in the defence of the place. After a period of stiff fighting the siege was raised and Charles V departed. The anniversary of the raising of the siege was, until 1914, annually celebrated by the inhabitants, and offerings were laid at the feet of Marie FourÉ, whose statue stood in the town. But now the statue, like the Castle of Peronne and the church of St. Jean, is no more.

The present war, however, has given something to replace the memory of Marie FourÉ. Outside the town at the foot of Mont St. Quentin can be seen a tract of ground set apart as a site for the memorial which is to be raised to the second Australian Division in commemoration of the men who fought and died for a great cause under the ramparts of Peronne. And in the days to come it is probable that once a year, on August 31, the townsfolk will repair thither and lay garlands of flowers at the base of the memorial that will remind them of the brave boys who fought and died for the freedom of France and for a yet greater freedom—the freedom of the world.

The capture of Mont St. Quentin was an operation second to none in the great summer drive of 1918. This natural fortress, strong as any on the Western Front, stands high over the Somme marshland and dominates all the surrounding country. On its south-eastern slope is a dense wood, now stumped and shivered, but at that time its trees stood high and green, burdened with a dense foliage that made it a splendid hiding-place for machine-gun nests. Though at that time the Germans were falling back at several points of the line it was unbelievable that they would give up Mont St. Quentin, a point of the utmost strategical value, as key to the whole Peronne area, without a bitter struggle.

That they prepared themselves to hold it is shown by the fact that the place was garrisoned by a force of 1500 men, and after the battle captured Germans stated that they specially volunteered to hold the line against an Australian advance.

On August 29, at noon, the British held all the southern banks of the Somme, but the Australians, fired with a long chain of victories, decided to advance further. Up till then in the Somme fighting they had recovered over 125 square miles of country and forty villages. Fifteen thousand prisoners had fallen to them, 301 officers, two regimental commanders, five battalion commanders and staffs, 161 guns, 3,000 machine guns, the whole transport of one battalion and miles of light railway trackage.

On the night of August 29, when darkness fell the Australian engineers busied themselves throwing bridges across the Somme canal, south of Peronne, and some of these bridges, broken and battered, are to be seen there yet. Working hard in the gloom, despite the continuous rifle and machine gun fire of the enemy, the engineers completed their task, and in the morning of the 30th patrols essayed to cross the canal and advance through the marshes towards Peronne. No practicable path could be found across the swampy morass; the enemy kept up a stubborn resistance and the Diggers had to desist from attempting further headway at the moment.

Meanwhile, fighting was proceeding elsewhere, and at every point the Australians were making gradual headway towards the ancient town. In the forenoon of August 30 the Omiecourt peninsula east of the village of Clery had been cleared and a bridge head held by the Germans was taken. This opening a route to the town, it was decided to advance in this direction and lay siege to Mont St. Quentin, attacking it from the north and west instead of the south.

By three o'clock in the afternoon the Australians came into contact with the German advanced positions and fierce hand-to-hand fighting took place and continued far into the night. Every inch of the ground was disputed, every path, every gully and bank became the scene of desperate fighting. Brave men went forth to meet death calmly and proudly, doing their duty with the consciousness of Right to sustain them, enduring all the risks of the night with a grim fortitude and bearing all its discomforts as if they loved war solely for its own sake.

But it is too much to say that the men love war. No man of normal pattern loves war as it is fought here, hip deep in slush all through the day and night in an atmosphere suffocating and gaseous. If a man loves war, he is no more to be complimented on fighting than a man who loves a good dish is to be complimented on eating. But one thing is true. The Australians, certain of the cause for which they are fighting, are keen on keeping at it until a successful finish is reached, knowing that the German method of warfare, waged with all its attendant despotism and tyranny, has for its aim, not alone the breaking of the Allies, but the shattering of the moral frontier of civilization. The Australians are out, not so much to make war for its own sake as to wage it for something that is straight and clean. And never was this purpose made more manifest than at the taking of Mont St. Quentin.

In the early morning of August 31, the infantry from New South Wales, Victoria and Tasmania, got orders to attack. The men were then in the locality of Clery-sur-Somme, and by a strange coincidence rations came to hand just as the attack was about to start. The mail also arrived with letters and parcels from home, but war cannot stop for matters of such little import as the reading of letters and the filling of hungry stomachs. Leaving the hot steaming dixies of tea behind them and stuffing their letters in their pockets the Australians in the cold damp morning, unaided by tanks or barrage, set out to attack. Peronne was in flames, Mont St. Quentin was impregnable, the Germans were offering a stubborn resistance. But no faltering for the "Diggers" when they were "up against it"!

The day cleared as they swept out from Clery-sur-Somme and made their way across the level stretch of land that lies between that village and their objective, fighting all the road and clearing the enemy from the old Somme trenches which lined the way. And as they fought they could see a hillock in the distance standing blank and bald, and to all seeming, impregnable. This was the steep promontory of Mont St. Quentin, the summit of which the brave soldiers of the New South Wales Brigade had to take. And to-day it presented a most formidable appearance and inaccessible front. But the men knew no stay, they prepared their hearts for a sublime suicide. Letters as yet unread were taken from their pockets, torn to shreds and flung to the winds. Though confronted with an almost certain death they were not going to give any information to the enemy.

Wire entanglements unbroken by shell-fire blocked the way of the soldiers of New South Wales, but undaunted, they sought for openings and wormed their way through. Some took off their coats, their packs, lifted props and sandbags that lay by the way, threw these on the wires and clambered over. The promontory was stormed, the ready bayonet brought into play and the enemy was cleared off Mont St. Quentin. At this one swift assault they scooped in most of the whole German rearguard north of Peronne, and captured the great natural position overlooking the city and took 1,500 prisoners.

It was here that 250 Australians captured 800 Germans, big soldiers of the Prussian Guards. In addition to the men the colonel of the battalion was taken prisoner, an irate individual who was exceedingly annoyed because the Australians had dared to capture him or his men. Bristling with arrogance he blustered and swore at the Australian officer who questioned him. How dared the Australians, the common Australian soldier, order him about, prod him with a bayonet when he refused to move and catch him by the collar of his coat and shove him in front of them towards the cages in the back area. He was a colonel, a scion of a noble house, an aristocrat.

"If you don't behave yourself," said the officer, "I'll pass you on to the Diggers. At the present moment you're not with the slaves in Germany."

The Colonel blazed into another round of abuse, and the officer, losing his temper, handed the Colonel over to the Diggers, giving them orders to search the man.

And they searched him, thrust miry hands into his pockets, felt under his shirt to see if he had any papers on his person. This amused the men, but did in no way ease the temper of the Prussian aristocrat and tyrant.

The Field