he passed through on his way to the car.

"Three stretcher-cases for Les Islettes. Very softly," said the
attendant, handing him the papers.

Jolting over the shell-pitted road, the car wound slowly through
unploughed weed-grown fields. At every jolt came a rasping groan from
the wounded men.

As they came back towards the front posts again, they found all the
batteries along the road firing. The air was a chaos of explosions that
jabbed viciously into their ears, above the reassuring purr of the
motor. Nearly to the abbey a soldier stopped them.

"Put the car behind the trees and get into a dugout. They're shelling
the abbey."

As he spoke a whining shriek grew suddenly loud over their heads. The
soldier threw himself flat in the muddy road. The explosion brought
gravel about their ears and made a curious smell of almonds.

Crowded in the door of the dugout in the hill opposite they watched the
abbey as shell after shell tore through the roof or exploded in the
strong buttresses of the apse. Dust rose high above the roof and filled
the air with an odour of damp tiles and plaster. The woods resounded in
a jangling tremor, with the batteries that started firing one after the
other.

"God, I hate them for that!" said Randolph between his teeth.

"What do you want? It's an observation post."

"I know, but damn it!"

There was a series of explosions; a shell fragment whizzed past their
heads.

"It's not safe there. You'd better come in all the way," someone shouted
from within the dugout.

"I want to see; damn it.... I'm goin' to stay and see it out, Howe. That
place meant a hell of a lot to me." Randolph blushed as he spoke.

Another bunch of shells crashing so near together they did not hear the
scream. When the cloud of dust blew away, they saw that the lantern had
fallen in on the roof of the apse, leaving only one wall and the tracery
of a window, of which the shattered carving stood out cream-white
against the reddish evening sky.

There was a lull in the firing. A few swallows still wheeled about the
walls, giving shrill little cries.

They saw the flash of a shell against the sky as it exploded in the part
of the tall roof that still remained. The roof crumpled and fell in, and
again dust hid the abbey.

"Oh, I hate this!" said Tom Randolph. "But the question is, what's
happened to our grub? The popote is buried four feet deep in Gothic
art.... Damn fool idea, putting a dressing-station over an