That morning I was given a message for General de Lisle from the French Corps Commander, to the effect that the British Cavalry was required in the front line.
Temporary divisional headquarters had been established at the fourth kilometre stone on the Elverdinghe road, to allow messages from regiments or brigades easily to find it.
When I arrived with the message I transmitted it to Major Fitzgerald, then set off to seek de Lisle, who, "Fitz" said, was making a tour of the line, and could be found either in Woesten or Elverdinghe.
I chose the latter objective. The way was lined by great black French Spahis, clad in variegated garb and wondrous head gear, for the first couple of kilometres. As we approached Elverdinghe, all signs of life vanished. An odd stillness brooded over the immediate vicinity, a sort of local lull in the maelstrom of sound the shell-bursts were making and had made throughout the night, a couple of miles to the eastward.
A half instinctive pause in the edge of the village, and a moment spent in tense listening, gave me an uncanny feeling of solitude. As I stood, undecided whether to push on into the town or circle back for Woesten, the silence was mashed to reverberating atoms by an 8-in. howitzer shell, which fell not far from the town.
Bang! rumph! r-r-r-rumph! Bang! Shrapnel and high explosive seemed to come together.
Another and another shell followed, then a blinding crash as I was turning my car and a shell burst in the square not far away, showering bits of shell and débris over me.
The pieces slap-slapped resoundingly against the metal panels of the car, and one good-sized stone was hurled against my back.
As I raced away to safety towards Poperinghe, the shells still came into the village and around it, and followed the road at my back, urging me on.