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Connor, Ralph, Pseudonym, 1860-1937

"The Sky Pilot in No Man's Land"


"All right, sir," said the driver, "but you'd better step in and ask the
officer."
They passed into a large and high-vaulted stone building, which in peace
days had been a mill. The old-fashioned, massive machinery was still
standing intact. Obtaining permission from the officer, they took their
places beside the driver of the ambulance, and were soon on their way.
It was already growing dark, but, although the surface of the stone pave
was frequently broken with shell-holes, the ambulance, dodging round the
holes, rushed without pause along at a high rate of speed.
"You don't use your lights?" asked Barry.
"No, not lately, sir," said the driver. "That's the newest order," he
added in a tone of disgust.
The road lay between double rows of once noble trees, centuries old,
with the first delicate green of spring softening their bare outlines.
Now, splintered, twisted, broken, their wounds showing white in the
darkening light through the delicate green, they stood silently eloquent
of the terrific force of the H.


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