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Then the guns ceased for a while, and there was
quietude in the trenches, and out of Ypres, sneaking by side ways,
went two tired figures, padding the hoof with a slouching swiftness to
escape the early morning "hate" which was sure to come as soon as a
clock in Vlamertinghe still working in a ruined tower chimed the hour
of six.
I went through Ypres scores of times afterward, and during the battles
of Flanders saw it day by day as columns of men and guns and pack-
mules and transports went up toward the ridge which led at last to
Passchendaele. We had big guns in the ruins of Ypres, and round about,
and they fired with violent concussions which shook loose stones, and
their flashes were red through the Flanders mist. Always this capital
of the battlefields was sinister, with the sense of menace about.
"Steel helmets to be worn. Gas-masks at the alert."
So said the traffic man at the crossroads.
As one strapped on one's steel helmet and shortened the strap of one's
gas-mask, the spirit of Ypres touched one's soul icily.


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