tacks were made and repulsed. If we suffered by
being close up, the Germans suffered from us, for already tales of good
shooting came down to us. I got some sleep despite the constant firing,
for we had none last night.

Saturday, April 24th, 1915.

Behold us now anything less than two miles north of Ypres on the west
side of the canal; this runs north, each bank flanked with high elms,
with bare trunks of the familiar Netherlands type. A few yards to the
West a main road runs, likewise bordered; the Censor will allow me to
say that on the high bank between these we had our headquarters; the
ridge is perhaps fifteen to twenty feet high, and slopes forward fifty
yards to the water, the back is more steep, and slopes quickly to a
little subsidiary water way, deep but dirty. Where the guns were I shall
not say; but they were not far, and the German aeroplanes that viewed
us daily with all but impunity knew very well. A road crossed over
the canal, and interrupted the ridge; across the road from us was our
billet--the place we cooked in, at least, and where we usually took our
meals. Looking to the south between the trees, we could see the ruins
of the city: to the front on the sky line, with rolling ground in the
front, pitted by French trenches, the German lines; to the left front,
several farms and a windmill, and farther left, again near the canal,
thicker trees and more farms. The farms and windmills were soon burnt.
Several farms we used for observing posts were also quickly burnt during
the next three or four days. All along behind us at varying distances
French and British guns; the flashes at night lit up the sky.

These high trees were at once a protection and a danger. Shells that
struck them were usually destructive. When we came in the foliage was
still very thin. Along the road, which was constantly shelled "on spec"
by the Germans, one saw all the sights of war: wounded men limping
or carried, ambulances, trains of supply, troops, army mules, and
tragedies. I saw one bicycle orderly: a shell exploded and he seemed
to pedal on for eight or ten revolutions and then collapsed in a
heap--dead. Straggling soldiers would be killed or wounded, horses
also, until it got to be a nightmare. I used to shudder every time I
saw wagons or troops on that road. My dugout looked out on it. I got
a square hole, 8 by 8, dug in the side of the hill (west), roofed over
with remnants to keep out the rain, and a little sandba