Three "coal boxes" had landed in succession in the upper storey of the house with a great rattle of tile, and as each one exploded huge puffs of black smoke and cinders flew out of the cracks in the stove, turning the water in the basin into a black decoction not unlike coffee.
We started a fresh fire. Sergeant Coe calmly remarked that lightning never struck twice in the same place. He was right.
Major Marshall had met me at dusk, in the rear of St. Julien village to tell me that he had sent the men into headquarter trenches at Wiltje under Sergeant "Jock" Thomson, and that he could not find out anything about Captains Alexander and Cory.
No officer in the division was more conscientious in his work and duty than Captain Alexander. Every man in his company worshipped him. He was absolutely fearless and always wore a pleasant smile when the danger was greatest. For his gallant defence of St. Julien, on my recommendation he was subsequently decorated with the Military Cross, although he had been made a prisoner of war. Capt. Cory, also on my recommendation, got his promotion to major.
On the way out I had passed a number of British regiments in extended order advancing to try to restore the lines for which we had fought so dearly. Seeing them going forward under shell fire in extended order told me at once they were green troops. When I reached Fortuyn I saw a battery of our artillery loaded and hooked up in the shelter of some farm buildings ready to withdraw.
I was then sent for to report to a British Aide-de-Camp in a "dugout" what the situation at Gravenstafel Ridge was. I told him briefly that my front trenches had been blown up, that I had retired all that was left of my supports,—some seventy all told,—on orders from Canadian Headquarters,—and that the British troops could easily make good our supporting trenches below the crest of the ridge without any difficulty.
After this I left the "report centre" and was passing through a territorial regiment which was advancing in open order when a man called out from the ranks, "Is that you, Colonel Currie?" I recognized him at once, and he asked me how his brother was. I knew them both well in Canada. I was sorry to have to tell him that his brother, who was with my regiment, was missing, either dead, wounded or a prisoner. He told me he had been rejected in Canada for being undersized and that he had gone to England and joined a territorial regiment. Their battalion had only just arrived from England and they were getting their baptism of fire. Truly the world is very small.
It was dusk when Major Marshall and I got back and we could not locate our contingent among the mixed units that were snatching a wink of sleep in the reserve trenches. We had partaken of very little food ourselves for about forty-eight hours, so we found our way back to our old billets in the outskirts of Ypres to get some bully beef and biscuits.
The shelling still continued. Every minute a shell would break close by and pieces would rattle against the wall of the house. I arranged that Major Marshall was to go in the morning and gather up the men in the reserve trenches and get them together, while I went to look up any stragglers in the city and send them forward. I was also to find the transport, which had been shelled out of their quarters at Ypres, and arranged with them to send food to us that evening. I then wrapped myself in my cloak and fell asleep on the floor to the weird sound of the German shells passing overhead.
The next day was Sunday, but no peal of bells was heard that morning calling the worshippers to early mass in the churches at Ypres. The civil population had fled. If there were bells ringing their notes were drowned by the fierce explosives that were following each other through the crooked streets in rapid succession. When old Vauban fashioned the moats and ramparts he never imagined they would be bombarded with seventeen inch shells from guns that had a range of twenty-four miles.