seven
o'clock in July
Great branches lay across the road , and pits torn out of the pave by bursting shells made steering a trifle intricate ; while occasionally one of the many signal wires which had slipped during the night and was hanging low above his head , scraped the top of his steel helmet . Once more the familiar '' _ B'jour , monsieur _ '' -- this time from an old dame who sat day in day out in a corner under a wall selling chocolate . Just above her head , so that by raising her arm she could have touched it , the nose of a `` dud '' German shell poked out from the brickwork . Ruin , desolation -- and shrouding it all the cool damp mist of seven o'clock in July . `` The very man ! '' A voice hailed him from behind , and a gunner subaltern materialised . `` Are you going up the line ? ''