sonry dust blowing
into the eyes. Houses around us crumpled up at one blast, and then shot
a thick brown cloud of dust, and out of the cloud a high central flame
that leaped and spread. With the wailing of shells in the air, every
few seconds, the thud and thunder of their impact, the scattering of the
shattered metal, it was one of the hot, thorough bombardments of the
war. It cleared the town of troops, after tearing their ranks. But it
left wounded men in the cellar of the Hotel de Ville. The Grand Place
and the Hotel were the center of the fire. Here we had to wait fifteen
minutes, while the wounded were made ready for our two cars. It was then
we turned to tobacco as to a friend. I remember the easement that came
when I found I had cigars in my waistcoat pocket. The act of lighting a
cigar, and pulling at it briskly, was a relief.

There was a second of time when we could hear a shell, about to burst
close, before it struck. It came, sharpening its nose on the air, making
a shrill whistle with a moan in it, that gathered volume as it neared.
There was a menace in the sound. It seemed to approach in a vast
enveloping mass that can't be escaped, filling all out-doors, and sure
to find you. It was as if the all-including sound were the missile
itself, with no hiding place offered. And yet the shell is generally a
little three-or-four inch thing, like a flower-pot, hurtling through
the scenery. But bruised nerves refuse to listen to reason, and again
and again I ducked as I heard that high wail, believing I was about to
be struck.

[Illustration: DOOR CHALKED BY THE GERMANS.

One of the 100 houses in Termonde with the direction "Do not Burn"
written in German. One thousand one hundred houses were burned, house by
house. Photograph by Radclyffe Dugmore.]

In that second of tension, it was a pleasant thing to draw in on a
butt--to discharge the smoke, a second later, carelessly, as who should
say, "It is nothing." The little cylinder was a lightning conductor to
lead away the danger from a vital part. It let the nervousness leak off
into biting and puffing, and making a play of fingering the stub,
instead of striking into the stomach and the courage. It gave the
troubled face something to do, and let the writhing hand busy itself. It
saved me from knowing just how frightened I was.

But what of the wounded themselves? They have to endure all that
dreariness of long waiting, and the pressure of danger, and then, for