Well, as I passed the little red factory I noticed that the shrapnel was bursting right over the village, which meant that as 80 per cent of shrapnel bullets shoot forward the village was comparatively safe.  As a matter of fact the street was full of ricochetting trifles.

Transport was drawn up well under cover of the wall and troops were marching in single file as near to the transport as possible.  Two horses were being led down the middle of the street.  Just before they reached me the nose of one of the horses suddenly was gashed and a stream of blood poured out.  Just a ricochet, and it decided me.  Despatch riders have to take care of themselves when H.Q. are eight miles away by road and there is no wire.  I put my motor-cycle under cover and walked the remaining 200 yards.

Coming back I heard some shouting, a momentary silence, then a flare of the finest blasphemy.  I turned the bend to see an officer holding his severed wrist and cursing.  He was one of those dashing fellows.  He had ridden alongside the transport swearing at the men to get a move on.  He had held up his arm to give the signal when a ricochet took his hand off cleanly.  His men said not a word,—­sat with an air of calm disapproval like Flemish oxen.

It was one in the morning and dark on the road when I took my next despatch to St Marguerite.  Just out of Bucy I passed Moulders, who shouted, “Ware wire and horses.”  Since last I had seen it the village had been unmercifully shelled.  Where the transport had been drawn up there were shattered waggons.  Strewn over the road were dead horses, of all carcasses the most ludicrously pitiful, and wound in and out of them, a witches’ web, crawled the wire from the splintered telegraph posts.  There was not a sound in the village except the gentle thump of my engine.  I was forced to pull up, that I might more clearly see my way between two horses.  My engine silent, I could only hear a little whisper from the house opposite and a dripping that I did not care to understand.  Farther on a house had fallen half across the road.  I scarcely dared to start my engine again in the silence of this desolate destruction.  Then I could not, because the dripping was my petrol and not the gore of some slaughtered animal.  A flooded carburettor is a nuisance in an unsavoury village.

At the eastern end of St Marguerite the road turns sharply south.  This is “Hell’s Own Corner.”  From it there is a full and open view of the Chivres valley, and conversely those in the Chivres valley can see the corner very clearly.  When we were acting on the offensive, a section of 4.5 in. howitzers were put into position just at the side of the road by the corner.  This the Germans may have discovered, or perhaps it was only that the corner presented a tempting target, for they shelled to destruction everything within a hundred yards.  The howitzers were rapidly put out of action though not destroyed, and a small orchard just behind them was ploughed, riven, and scarred with high explosive and shrapnel.