As the lorries advanced up the Snake Road and delivered their ammunition, they left by another road running straight south; this latter was packed with ambulances waiting to take wounded out, and civilians were running madly here and there endeavoring to get out of the fire zone.

I reached Ouderham, which was at that time out of the range of the fire; estaminets were getting ready to close for the night, the hour of ten having struck.  The ammunition drivers were lying around taking things easy and not expecting an ammunition call, but the moment I hove in sight they raced out to the wagon line.  Many and eager were the inquiries fired at me as to what was happening up the line.  They knew the parson had gone up and they were burning to know what was doing.  I told them as well as I could.

“Stand to!” from the Q.M. and they came running from their tents, not waiting to take even a blanket, throwing in their equipment as fast as they could, trotting their horses over to the ammunition trucks and hitching them up.

“Stand to your horses!  Prepare to mount!  Mount!” came the three distinct orders roared out by the Quartermaster, with scarcely a second’s time between each and its fulfillment.  With a gunner in each wagon we started in less than eight minutes from the time the order was given, trotting as hard as horses could trot over the cobblestones.

It was not long before we came in contact with the fire, but luck was with us and we escaped until we got to the ammunition dump, where we loaded up with ammunition as fast as men ever worked; it was a joy forever to see those boys work.  We had to load up in chain fashion, as it was impossible for the wagons to get to a dump more than four at a time, and the loading was done by the men passing the shells from hand to hand until each wagon was loaded.  Then not a second was lost in starting.  The crossroads were reached, but the traffic was so congested we could not pass for a while.

Shells were raining down when we finally started, one of them blowing the body off one of our wagons, leaving the limber, but no further damage beyond the driver, Luther, breaking his leg.  A gunner took his place and Luther was laid in the gutter until such time as he could be picked up.  We galloped past the Empire battery, got to the Belgian Garden at last, taking cover under a clump of trees until the firing had cooled somewhat, and then we took the chance—­it was one in ten—­to get by.  Starting on a dead gallop, shells commenced to chase us all the way up the road.  Keeping as well under cover of the hedge as we could, we crossed the railroad bridge, and as we neared the entrance to Ypres square the fire again cooled down; but on getting into the square 25 shells, exploding one after the other as quickly as so many seconds, followed by thunderclaps of brain-splitting noise, ripped up the paving stones, flinging them in all directions, and taking chunks out of the eight wagons and wheels.  Trotting sharply through the square, we got to Rampart Bridge, which they were showering with shells to prevent our engineers repairing it; it was badly smashed and we had to go a long way around by Ypres Rampart.