ee Zillebeke,
Sanctuary Wood, High Wood, Square Wood, and Hooge. The light reflected
from our glasses must have been seen by some German sniper, for suddenly
we heard the crack of bullets in the hedge behind us and we hastily
withdrew to the dugout. As I walked back down the road I came to one of
the posts of the motor-machine-gunners who were there on guard. They were
just having tea outside and kindly invited me to join them. We had a
delightful conversation on poetry and literature, but were prepared to
beat a hasty retreat into the dugout in case the Germans took to
shelling the road, which they did every evening.

Railway Dugouts was always a pleasant place to visit, there were so
many men there. As one passed up and down the wooden walk which ran
the length of the embankment there were many opportunities of meeting
one's friends. On the other side of it, however, which was exposed to
the German shells, the men frequently had a hard time in getting up to
the line.

There were several interesting chateaus in the neighbourhood. That
nearest to the front was called Bedford House, and stood in what must
have been once very beautiful grounds. The upper part of the house was
in ruins, but the cellars were deep and capacious and formed a good
billet for the officers and men. At one side there was a dressing
station and in the garden were some huts protected by piles of sand
bags.

A chateau that was well-known in the Salient lay a little to the (p. 127)
west of Bedford House. It was called Swan Chateau, from the fact
that a large white swan lived on the artificial lake in the grounds. I
never saw the swan myself, but the men said it had been wounded in the
wing and had lost an eye. It was long an object of interest to many
battalions that at different times were housed in the chateau. One day
the swan disappeared. It was rumoured that a hungry Canadian battalion
had killed it for food. On the other hand, it was said that it had
been taken to some place of safety to prevent its being killed. There
was something very poetical in the idea of this beautiful bird living
on through the scene of desolation, like the spirit of the world that
had passed away. It brought back memories of the life that had gone,
and the splendour of an age which had left Ypres forever.

CHAPTER XI. (p. 128)

THE ATTACK ON MOUNT SORREL.

_Summer, 1916._

Easter Day, 1916, fell