The light of bursting shells as they fall, or of bursting bombs from an
aeroplane, is a short, sharp, quick light like an electric flash when a
wire falls or a flash of sharp lightning, but the light of the great
guns along the line as they thunder their missiles of death can be seen
for miles when a bombardment is on. One forgets the thunder of these
belching monsters, and one forgets the death they carry, in the glory
of the flame of noonday light that they make in the night.
Then there are the range-finders. These suddenly shoot up in the
night, steady and clear, and remain for several minutes burning
brightly before they go out. I used to see these frequently driving
home from the front. They were sent up from the hangars to guide the
French and American planes to a safe landing by night.
Then there is the moonlight. Moonlight nights in towns along the war
front are dreaded, for it invariably means a Boche raid. Clear
moonlight nights with a full moon are fine for lovers in a country that
is at peace, but it may mean death for lovers in a country that is at
war. But moonlight nights are beautiful even in war countries, with
dim old cathedrals looming in the background, and the white villages of
France, a huge château here and there against the hillside or crowning
its summit; and the white roads and white fields of France swinging by.
One forgets there is war then, until he hears the unmistakable beat of
the Hun plane overhead and sees the flash of one, two, three, four,
five, six, ten, twelve, fifteen bombs break in a single field a few
hundred yards away, and the driver remarks: "I knew we'd have a raid
tonight. It's a great night for the Boche!"