"It was fast work at 'Wipers,'" he said, "with shells falling into the town like a thousand roaring devils. They dropped one into the signaller's billet. It tore a hole in the side of the building large enough to march an elephant through, and killed every mother's son of them. A 'Jack Johnson' came through the roof of our hospital and dropped into the ward—exit ward! There wasn't a bed left standing. Luckily we had removed most of the patients into the cellar—but those who were left are still there, buried in the ruins."
"The usual German respect for the Red Cross!" I commented bitterly.
"The flag makes a good mark for their artillery," he returned, with a smile; "they always look for us."
"You've had many narrow squeaks, I presume?"
He laughed merrily. "So narrow that if I had had a big stomach it might have been whittled down to sylph-like proportions. I was standing one day close to a dug-out, talking to two brother officers. The 'Whizz-Bangs' and 'Coal Boxes' were sizzling over from time to time, but not especially close. An old friend of mine" (Jack always had an "old friend" everywhere!) "stuck his head out of the dug-out and shouted up to me:
"'Drop in and have a drink, Jack—the water's fine!'
"I told him I was never thirsty in the mornings. He looked surprised, but called back again:
"'If you'll do me the honour to descend, I'll make you a fine long John Collins!'
"'Well, well,' I said, 'as you're so kind and such a persistent beggar, I'll humour you.' The other two officers said they wouldn't go in, and so I climbed down into his dug-out and sat down.
"Just as I did so a big shell came—bang!—right where I had been standing. We sprang to our feet and looked out—the poor chaps I had just left had been literally blown to pieces!"