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Suddenly one of us said, "Good God!"
An iron door had slammed down the corridors of the sky and the hamlet
into which we were just going was blotted out by black smoke, which
came up from its center as though its market-place had opened up and
vomited out infernal vapors.
"A big shell that!" said one man, a tall, lean-limbed officer, who
later in the war was sniper-in-chief of the British army. Something
enraged him at the sight of that shelled village.
"Damn them!" he said. "Damn the war! Damn all dirty dogs who smash up
life!"
Four times the thing happened, and we were glad there had been a
minute or so between us and Dickebusch. (In Dickebusch my young
cobbler friend from Fleet Street was crouching low, expecting death.)
The peace of the day was spoiled. There was seldom a real peace on the
way to Ypres. The German gunners had wakened up again. They always
did. They were getting busy, those house-wreckers. The long rush of
shells tore great holes through the air.


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