a picture of the
Blessed Virgin in a cedar frame. That night we placed it outside our
dug-out over the door. In the morning we found it smashed to pieces by
a bullet.

Daily I spent some time in the garret on my way out to the water-cart;
and one day I found it occupied. Five soldiers and an officer were
standing at my peephole when I got up, with a large telescope fixed on
a tripod and trained on the enemy's lines. The War Intelligence
Department had taken over the house for an observation post.

"What do you want here?" asked the officer.

Soldiers are ordered to keep to the trenches on the way out and in,
none of the houses that line the way are to be visited. It was a case
for a slight prevarication. My water jar was out in the trench: I
carried my rifle and a bandolier.

"I'm looking for a sniping position," I said. (p. 270)

"You cannot stop here," said the officer. "We've taken this place
over. Try some of the houses on the left."

I cleared out. Three days later when on my usual errand I saw that the
roof of my observation villa had been blown in. Nobody would be in
there now I concluded and ventured inside. The door which stood at the
bottom of the garret stair was closed. I caught hold of the latch and
pulled it towards me. The door held tight. As I struggled with it I
had a sense of pulling against a detaining hand that strove to hide a
mystery, something fearful, from my eye. It swung towards me slowly
and a pile of bricks fell on my feet as it opened. Something dark and
liquid oozed out under my boots. I felt myself slip on it and knew
that I stood on blood. All the way up the rubble-covered stairs there
was blood, it had splashed red on the railings and walls. Laths,
plaster, tiles and beams lay on the floor above and in the midst of
the jumble was a shattered telescope still moist with the blood of
men. Had all been killed and were all those I had met a few days
before in the garret when the shell landed on the roof? It was
impossible to tell.

I returned to the dug-out meditating on the strange things that (p. 271)
can be seen by him who goes souvenir-hunting between Souchez and
Ypres. As I entered I found Bill gazing mutely at some black liquid in
a sooty mess-tin.

"Some milk, Bill," I said handing him the tin of Nestle's which had
just come to me in a Gargantuan parcel from an English friend.

"No milk, matey," he answered, "I'm feelin' done up proper, I am.
Cannot