The sharp crack of a rifle quickly brought me back to earth. A bullet struck the wall close by. I dived under cover of some bricks dragging my camera after me. Another came over seeming to strike the spot I had just vacated. I decided to keep the ruins between myself and the gentle Bosche. Scenes were very scarce, no matter where one looked it was just ruins, ruins, ruins.
I wandered on until I came to a long black building, evidently put up by the Huns. It was quite intact, which to me seemed suspicious. It might hide a German sniper. I put my camera behind a wall then quietly edged near the building. Not a sound was audible. In case anyone was there I thought of a little ruse. The door was close to me and it opened outwards, so picking up a stone I flung it over the roof, intending it to fall the other end and so create a diversion. With a sudden pull I opened the door alongside me, but with no result. I peered round the door; nobody there. I entered and found the building had been used as a stable. Straw was lying all over the place; feed-bags had been hastily thrown down, halters were dotted here and there, and a Uhlan lance was lying on the ground, which, needless to say, I retained as a souvenir. The rearguard of the enemy had evidently taken shelter there during the previous night and had made a hasty exit owing to the close proximity of our boys.
Evening was drawing on apace, so I decided to make my way back to the car. The "still" man was awaiting my return.
At Bovincourt I met an Intelligence Officer and told him of my experiences. He seemed highly amused and thanked me for the information brought. I told him that wishing to be on the spot if anything interesting happened during the night or early next morning I had decided to sleep in my car in the village. I was going to hunt up a place to cook some food.
"I will take you somewhere," he said. "There is the old Mayor of Bierne here. He has been evacuated by the Bosche. He's an interesting old fellow and you might have a chat with him. He is in a house close by with his wife. Come along."
We found the old man in one of the half-dozen remaining houses left intact by the Huns.
We entered the kitchen and my friend introduced us to Paul Andrew, a tall stately French farmer of a type one rarely sees. He had dark curly hair, a shaggy moustache and beard, blue eyes and sunken cheeks, sallow complexion and a look of despair upon his face, which seemed to brighten up on our entrance.
I asked him if his good wife would cook a little food for us, as we wished to stay the night in the village.
"Monsieur," he said, "what we have is yours. God knows it's little enough—the Bosche has taken it all. But whatever monsieur wishes he has only to ask. Will monsieur sit down?"
I bade adieu to the officer who had brought us there, had the car run into the yard, and then returned to the cosy kitchen, and sat by the fire whilst the old lady prepared some hot coffee.