We were herded along the narrow street, out into a wide road, where we found an open car which ran on light rails in the centre of the road.  It was like the picnic trolley cars which run in our cities in the warm weather.  There were wounded German soldiers huddled together, and we sat down among them, wherever we could find the room, but not a word was spoken.  I don’t know whether they noticed who we were or not—­they had enough to think about, not to be concerned with us, for most of them were terribly wounded.  The one I sat beside leaned his head against my good shoulder and sobbed as he breathed.  I could not help but think of the irony of war that had brought us together.  For all I knew, he may have been the machine gunner who had been the means of ripping my shoulder to pieces—­and it may have been a bullet from my rifle which had torn its way along his leg which now hung useless.  Even so, there was no hard feeling between us, and he was welcome to the support of my good shoulder!

Some time through the night—­my watch was broken and I couldn’t tell the time exactly—­we came to another village and got off the car.  A guard came and carried off my companion, but as I could walk, I was left to unload myself.  The step was high, and as my shoulder was very stiff and sore, I hesitated about jumping down.  A big German soldier saw me, understood what was wrong, and lifted me gently down.

It was then nearly morning, for the dawn was beginning to show in the sky, and we were taken to an old church, where we were told to lie down and go to sleep.  It was miserably cold in the church, and my shoulder ached fearfully.  I tried hard to sleep, but couldn’t manage it, and walked up and down to keep warm.  I couldn’t help but think of the strange use the church—­which had been the scene of so many pleasant gatherings—­was being put to, and as I leaned against the wall and looked out of the window, I seemed to see the gay and light-hearted Belgian people who so recently had gathered there.  Right here, I thought, the bashful boys had stood, waiting to walk home with the girls... just the way we did in British Columbia, where one church I know well stands almost covered with the fragrant pines...

I fell into a pleasant reverie then of sunny afternoons and dewy moonlit nights, when the sun had gone over the mountains, and the stars came out in hundreds.  My dream then began to have in it the brightest-eyed girl in the world, who gave me such a smile one Sunday when she came out of church... that I just naturally found myself walking beside her....  She had on a pink suit and white shoes, and wore a long string of black beads...

Then somebody spoke to me, and a sudden chill seized me and sent me into a spasm of coughing, and the pain of my shoulder shot up into my head like a knife... and I was back—­all right—­to the ruined church in Belgium, a prisoner of war in the hands of the Germans!