Again and yet again, each time the terror growing deeper in their souls, came the two other shells, but they fell far behind.
“Oh, Fritzie,” remonstrated the driver, “that's rotten bad work. You'll have to do better than that.”
Again and again, in groups of four, the shells came roaring in, but the car had passed out of that particular zone of danger, and sped safely on its way.
“Do you have this sort of thing every night?” enquired Barry.
“Oh, no,” cheerfully replied the driver. “Fritzie makes a lot better practice than that, at times. Do you see this?” He put his finger upon a triangular hole a few inches above his head. “I got that last week. We don't mind so much going up, but it's rather annoying when you're bringing down your load of wounded.”
As they approached Ypres, the road became more and more congested, until at length they had to thread their way between two continuous streams of traffic up and down, consisting of marching battalions, transports, artillery wagons, ambulances, with now and then a motor or a big gun.
About a mile from the city, they came to a large red brick building, with pretentious towers and surrounded by a high brick wall.
“An asylum,” explained the driver. “Now used as a dressing station. We'll just run in for orders.”
At what seemed to Barry reckless speed, he whirled in between the brick posts, and turned into a courtyard, on one side of which he parked his ambulance.
“Better come inside, sir,” said the driver. “They sometimes throw a few in here, seeing it's a hospital.”