With the wailing of shells in the air, every
few seconds, the thud and thunder of their impact, the scattering of the
shattered metal, it was one of the hot, thorough bombardments of the
war. It cleared the town of troops, after tearing their ranks. But it
left wounded men in the cellar of the Hotel de Ville. The Grand Place
and the Hotel were the center of the fire. Here we had to wait fifteen
minutes, while the wounded were made ready for our two cars. It was then
we turned to tobacco as to a friend. I remember the easement that came
when I found I had cigars in my waistcoat pocket. The act of lighting a
cigar, and pulling at it briskly, was a relief.
There was a second of time when we could hear a shell, about to burst
close, before it struck. It came, sharpening its nose on the air, making
a shrill whistle with a moan in it, that gathered volume as it neared.
There was a menace in the sound. It seemed to approach in a vast
enveloping mass that can't be escaped, filling all out-doors, and sure
to find you. It was as if the all-including sound were the missile
itself, with no hiding place offered. And yet the shell is generally a
little three-or-four inch thing, like a flower-pot, hurtling through
the scenery. But bruised nerves refuse to listen to reason, and again
and again I ducked as I heard that high wail, believing I was about to
be struck.
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