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In Flanders Fields and Other Poems by John McCrae
page 46 of 121 (38%)

Saturday, April 24th, 1915.

Behold us now anything less than two miles north of Ypres
on the west side of the canal; this runs north, each bank flanked
with high elms, with bare trunks of the familiar Netherlands type.
A few yards to the West a main road runs, likewise bordered;
the Censor will allow me to say that on the high bank between these
we had our headquarters; the ridge is perhaps fifteen to twenty feet high,
and slopes forward fifty yards to the water, the back is more steep,
and slopes quickly to a little subsidiary water way, deep but dirty.
Where the guns were I shall not say; but they were not far,
and the German aeroplanes that viewed us daily with all but impunity
knew very well. A road crossed over the canal, and interrupted the ridge;
across the road from us was our billet -- the place we cooked in, at least,
and where we usually took our meals. Looking to the south between the trees,
we could see the ruins of the city: to the front on the sky line,
with rolling ground in the front, pitted by French trenches, the German lines;
to the left front, several farms and a windmill, and farther left,
again near the canal, thicker trees and more farms. The farms and windmills
were soon burnt. Several farms we used for observing posts were also
quickly burnt during the next three or four days. All along behind us
at varying distances French and British guns; the flashes at night
lit up the sky.

These high trees were at once a protection and a danger.
Shells that struck them were usually destructive. When we came in
the foliage was still very thin. Along the road, which was constantly shelled
"on spec" by the Germans, one saw all the sights of war:
wounded men limping or carried, ambulances, trains of supply, troops,
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