They were a group of young war-photographers to whom danger
was a magnet. Though none of them had yet reached the age of
thirty, they had seen service in all the stirring events of Europe and
even around the globe. Where the clouds lowered and the seas
tossed, there they flocked. Like stormy petrels they rushed to the
center of the swirling world. That was their element. A free-lance, a
representative of the Northcliffe press, and two movie-men
comprised this little group and made an island of English amidst
the general babel.

Like most men who have seen much of the world, they had
ceased to be cynics. When I came to them out of the rain, carrying
no other introduction than a dripping overcoat, they welcomed me
into their company and whiled away the evening with tales of the
Balkan wars.

They were in high spirits over their exploits of the previous day,
when the Germans, withdrawing from Melle on the outskirts of the
city, had left a long row of cottages still burning. As the enemy
troops pulled out the further end of the street, the movie men
came in at the other and caught the pictures of the still blazing
houses. We went down to view them on the screen. To the gentle
throbbing of drums and piano, the citizens of Ghent viewed the
unique spectacle of their own suburbs going up in smoke.

At the end of the show they invited me to fill out their automobile
on the morrow. Nearly every other motor had been commandeered
by the authorities for the "Service Militaire" and bore on the front
the letters "S. M." Our car was by no means in the blue-ribbon