Finally, I got the horse started on a straight run, came to a bridge crossing the Rampart Canal, but they were shelling the bridge so violently it would have been certain destruction to have attempted getting across.  Jumping off, I pulled the horse into a ruined building, and there in the twilight I had a splendid opportunity to view the efficiency of the German observation work.  They were making the most determined effort to prevent any communication being sent to the wagon lines for ammunition, and one continual stream of shells was following me down the road; they were dropping as thickly as hailstones for the entire distance up and down the road as far as I could see.  I waited there ten minutes and then led the horse out, walking a hundred yards towards the bridge.  Then came another burst of shells; again I stopped 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 commenced sending the nuggets of lead into the floor at the unoffending feet of the “Lady from the East,” just to see him dance.  When I came to within 50 yards of it I saw it was clearly impossible to cross on account of the heavy shell clusters that were raining down.