for a few minutes, made another hundred yards, and another bursting
storm of shells. I was walking the horse all this time, but I made up my
mind the time had come to make a dash for it. I jumped on his back, lay
flat as a pancake, and with a good stout stick I lammed that poor brute
as few horses ever were lammed, made a dash for the bridge and got
safely across.

About 100 yards over and down came a burst of concussion shells, flying
and blowing everything around to smithereens. I was now very close to
the square and could see it was being strafed for fair. My experience in
watching and timing shell fire now stood me in good stead. I was able
by the action of the shells to instantly determine whether the German
guns were jumping, rendering their aim uncertain, and, also, to know
when the next burst would come, where it would strike, and about how it
would operate,--whether gas, shrapnel, or what not. Men were clinging to
the walls, trying to take shelter, and it was clearly impossible to get
through with the horse. I retraced my steps half way to the ruined
building I had just left ten minutes before; I was looking longingly at
it, wishing for its friendly shelter, when a shell struck it, blowing it
to dust. I then led the horse, hugging the walls as closely as I could,
until I got to the edge of the square, then made a run for it across,
and had just cleared it when another cluster burst, wounding the horse
in the leg. Notwithstanding his wound, he managed to bear me up until I
got to the railroad crossing, lying southwesterly from the square about
500 yards distant. Here the airplane spotted me again and directed a
barrage to stop me crossing, but I took the chance and got through it.
Every step of the way to the bridge crossing the Yser Canal, shells were
being planted at my heels. I can only liken my state of mind to that of
the tenderfoot in the saloon of the Wild and Woolly, when Halfbreed
Harvey, just for the fun of it, took a revolver in each hand and