Mr. Bevan showed me a shell-hole 42 feet across, made by one single “soixante-quinze” shell.  Every field is pitted with holes, and where there are stretches of pale-coloured mud the round pits dotted all over it give one the impression of an immense Gruyere cheese.  The streets, heaped with debris, and with houses fallen helplessly forward into their midst, were full of sunshine.  From ruined cottages—­whose insecure walls tottered—­one saw here and there some Zouaves or a little French “marin” appear.  Most of these ran out with letters in their hands for us to post.  Heaven knows what they can have to write about from that grave!

Some beautiful pillars of the cathedral still stand, and the tower, full of holes, has not yet bent its head.  Lieutenant Shoppe, R.N., sits up there all day, and takes observations, with the shells knocking gaily against the walls.  One day the tower will fall or its stones will be pierced, and then Lieutenant Shoppe, R.N., will be killed, as the Belgian “observateur” was killed at Oostkerke the other day.  He still hangs there across a beam for all the world to see.  His arms are stretched out, and his body lies head downwards, and no one can go near the dead Belgian because the tower is too unsafe now.  One day perhaps it will fall altogether and bury him.

Meanwhile, in the tower of the ruined cathedral at Nieuport Shoppe sits in his shirt-sleeves, with his telephone beside him and his observation instruments.  His small staff are with him.  They are immensely interested in the range of a gun and the accuracy of a hit.  I believe they do not think of anything else.  No doubt the tower shakes a great deal when a shell hits it, and no doubt the number of holes in its sides is daily becoming more numerous.  Each morning that Shoppe leaves home to spend his day in the tower he runs an excellent chance of being killed, and in the evening he returns and eats a good dinner in rather an uncomfortable hotel.

In the cathedral, and amongst its crumbling battered aisles, a strange peace rests.  The pitiful columns of the church stand here and there—­the roof has long since gone.  On its most sheltered side is the little graveyard, filled with crosses, where the dead lie.  Here and there a shell has entered and torn a corpse from its resting-place, and bones lie scattered.  On other graves a few simple flowers are laid.

We went to see the dim cellars which form the two “postes au secours.”  In the inner recess of one a doctor has a bed, in the outer cave some soldiers were eating food.  There is no light even during the day except from the doorway.  At Nieuport the Germans put in 3,000 shells in one day.  Nothing is left.  If there ever was anything to loot, it has been looted.  One doesn’t know what lies under the debris.  Here one sees the inside of a piano and a few twisted strings, and there a metal umbrella-stand.  I saw one wrought-iron sign hanging from the falling walls of an inn.