One afternoon we were chugging along in our Red Cross ambulance coming down from the first aid posts where we had been talking to some American Ambulance boys on the French Front, when we noticed the arrives were landing regularly so we knew that the Germans were after something in the neighbourhood—­perhaps a big gun, perhaps an ammunition dump.  We were speculating upon the nature of the target when we whirled around a corner and saw it.  It was a cross-road.  Four roads forked there; the Germans, of course, had it marked.  It was getting its afternoon pour parler; for they believed that the ammunition trains would be passing that cross-road at that time.  And as we looked out of the windows of the ambulance our hearts jumped—­at least Henry’s and mine jumped—­as we saw that between us and the forks of the road a great French camion had skidded and stalled, with two wheels over the embankment that raised the road from the swamp about us, effectually blocking our way.  “This,” said Major Murphy, taking in the situation quickly, “is a mighty dangerous place.”  As the word “place” escaped him he was on the ground.  He had slid through a window of the ambulance.  The ambulance drivers—­Singer and Hughes—­neglecting to unlock the ambulance doors, ran up the road and began working with the drivers of the camion to get the great van on the road again.  The other occupants of the ambulance also hurried to the camion—­through the windows of the ambulance; no one was left to unbutton the thing for Henry and me.  Henry insists that he was there alone; that he was afraid to follow me through the window for fear of sticking in it.  He had not been avoiding fats, sugars and starches for a year and had no girlish lines in his figure.  And the arrives were certainly bouncing in rather brashly.  The rest of us were out in the open where we could duck and perhaps avoid the spray of shrapnel.  But an ambulance was no more protection against fifty pounds of German junk than an umbrella.  And there sat Henry in the ambulance wistfully looking through the window of the vehicle and realizing that his exposure was less in a dignified sitting posture in the ambulance than it would be horizontally half in and half out of the thing, held fast in the vain endeavour to get away.  So he waited for the next “arrive” to come with commendable fortitude.  And then it came.  It sounded like the old grand-daddy of all shells.  We fancied we could sense its direction; possibly that was imagination.  But anyway we looked toward the German lines and realized Henry’s grave danger.  And then it struck—­whanged with an awful roar about seventy-five feet from us, against the bare trunk of a shell-stripped tree.  We knew without looking that the shell had hit the tree.  Then our consciousness recorded the fact that a French soldier had been standing by that tree.  And slowly and in terror we turned our eyes tree-ward.  The tree was a mass of splinters.  It looked like a special sale of toothpicks in a show window.