"Take good cover, President," said the General, as he started across a shell-torn meadow.
Easier said than done, I thought.
The lee of a house wall sheltered an empty biscuit-tin, on which I perched, under a lean-to of rough boards. The sky showed a fairy blue through hundreds of holes in the sheet-iron roof of the rudely constructed shed, evidence that a bursting shell above had "scattered" splendidly.
In spite of shell interludes I had one or two interesting chats with passers-by. A hospital corps sergeant told me the Huns shelled the Zonnebeke road, beside which we were chatting, every time they saw a transport on it.
"They give it hell when something moves over it," he said impressively. "Just let us bring an ambulance up here in the daytime, and see them get busy, the devils."
"That's nice," said I. "Do you think they could see my car when it went up to Potijze?"
"Sure," he replied with conviction. "Sure. If they haven't shelled you yet they will, all right, don't you worry."
He left me cogitating, as he strode off whistling, evidently unaware he had put anything but comforting ideas in my head.
All those who came from "up there" agreed as to one thing—the storm of howitzer-shells made one's chance of living through a "turn in the trenches" extremely slim. Many men were undeniably demoralised by it.