. But though I waited for over an hour, nothing else happened.
The Germans had ceased firing for that morning at least. Not till I had
gone to my cafe did I realise the danger I had exposed myself to, but
somehow I had seemed so confident that I should not get hit, that to
film the explosions entirely absorbed all my thoughts.

Next morning I decided to tour the front line, if possible from Dixmude
to Nieuport, making Ramscapelle a centre. I hoped to drop in with an
isolated action or a few outpost duels, for up to the present things
were going exceedingly slow from my point of view.

Arranging for a dispatch rider to take me along to Ramscapelle, away I
went. The roads were in a frightful condition after months of rain, and
shell-holes were dotted all over the surface. It is marvellous these men
do not more frequently meet death by accident, for what with the back
wheel sliding and skidding like an unbroken mule, and dodging round
shell-holes as if we were playing musical chairs, and hanging round the
driver's waist like a limpet to keep our balance, it was anything but a
comfortable experience. In the end one back wheel slipped into a
shell-hole and pitched me into a lovely pool of water and mud. Then
after remounting, we were edged off the road into the mud again by a
heavy transport lorry, and enjoyed a second mud-bath. After that I came
to the conclusion that I would rather film a close view of a bayonet
charge than do another such journey.

By now I was the most abject-looking specimen of humanity imaginable. My
camera in its case was securely fastened on my shoulders as a knapsack,
and so, with the exception of a slight derangement, which I soon
readjusted, no damage was done. But the motor-cycle suffered
considerably, and leaving it alongside the road to await a breakdown
lorry to repair it--or a shell to finish it--I proceeded on foot to
Ramscapelle.

Within a hundred yards of the ruined town, from the shelter of a wrecked
barn came the voice of a Belgian soldier peremptorily ordering me to
take cover. Without asking questions, I did so by sprawling full length
in a deep wheel-rut, but as I had previously had a mud-bath, a little
more or less did not matter. I wriggled myself towards the cover of the
barn, when a sharp volley of rifle-fire broke out on my left. Gaining
shelter, I asked the soldier the reason of the fusillade.

"Uhlan outposts, monsieur," replied the man laconically.

Keeping under cover,