“At times,” a French soldier declared in a letter to his home, “we could hardly hold our rifles—they were so hot. Often we had in the trenches no cover of any sort. We had just to dig up a heap of earth a foot high or so, and, lying behind it, pelt away for all we were worth.

“Our shooting, I can assure you, was as steady as though our men were at the rifle ranges, and ever so often in front of our positions we could see the dead accumulating in great heaps. Far away on my right I saw at one time British cavalry charging. We took the risk and looked up to see it. Upon my word, it was a magnificent sight. I was too far off to see what happened when they got home, which they did with magnificent dash. I don’t think they lost heavily, at least, not very heavily, for we saw them get back again.”

“And the Germans? What do you think of them?” I asked.

“Not a great deal as shots, but the way they came on again and again throughout the day was great. They are a brave lot, and it took us all our time to hold them back; they had such enormous numbers.”