I must be dreaming or that the book was bewitched.  Next minute I was out of bed like a rabbit, and turning off the light, dashed outside just as the second went over.  I naturally looked skyward, but there was not a sign of anything and, stranger still, not even the throb of an engine.  A third went over with a loud screech, and my hair was blown into the air by the rushing wind it caused.  I saw a flash from the sea and Thompson said she was wakened by my voice calling, “I say, come out and see this new stunt.”  Soon everyone was up and the shells came on steadily, blowing our hair about, and making the very pebbles rush rattling along the ground, hitting against our feet with such force we thought at first it must be spent shrapnel.  Some of those shells screeched and some miauled like huge cats hurtling through the air to spring on their prey.  These latter made a cold shiver run down my spine; the noise they made was so blood-curdling.  One could cope with the ordinary ones, but frankly, these were beastly.  Luckily they only went over about every tenth.  It was something quite new getting shells of this calibre from such a short range, and “side-ways,” too, as someone expressed it; quite a different sensation from on top.  The noise was deafening; and then one struck the bank our camp was built on.  We had no dug-out and seemingly were just waiting to be potted at.  We got the cars ready in case we were called up, and the shells whizzed over all the time.  There was another explosion—­one had landed in our incinerator!  Good business!  Another hit the bank again!  Once more the fact of being so near the danger proved our safety, for with these three exceptions, they all passed over into the town beyond.  The smell of powder in the air was so strong it made us sneeze.  It was estimated roughly that 300 shells were lobbed into the town, and all passing over us on the way.

It was a German destroyer that had somehow got down the coast unchallenged, and was—­we heard afterwards—­only at a distance of 100 yards!  What a chance for good shooting on our part; but it was a pitch black night and somehow she got away in the velvet darkness.  Sounds of firing at sea—­easily distinguishable from those on land because of the “plop” after them—­continued throughout the night and we thought a naval battle was in progress somewhere; however, it proved to be one of the bombardments of England, according to the papers next day.  To our great disappointment, our little “drop in the bucket” of 300 odd shells was not even mentioned.

There was much eager scratching in the bank for bits of shells the next day.  One big piece was made into a paper-weight by the old Scotch carpenter, and another was put on the “narrow escape” shelf among the other bits that had “nearly, but not quite!”