ese suddenly ceased,
and, as a matter of fact, I began to wonder whether peace had been
declared when your car came bounding up the road. How the devil did you
manage it? Yesterday evening the act of putting one's head over the
parapet was enough to draw a few shells; but you come sailing up here in
a car."

"This is about the most charming joy-ride I have had for many a day," I
replied, "but let me introduce myself. I am Malins, the Official
Kinematographer, and my friend here is the Official 'still' picture man.
We are here to get scenes of the German retreat, but it seems to me that
one cannot see Bosche for dust. That is Villers-Carbonel, is it not?" I
said, pointing up the road in the distance.

"Yes," he replied.

"Right," I said, "we are going there and on our way back we'll tell you
all the news."

With a cheery wave of the hand he bade us adieu, and we started on our
journey.

The once beautiful trees which lined the sides of the road were torn to
shreds and, in some instances, were completely cut in half by shell-fire
and the trunks were strewn across the road. These and the enormous
shell-holes made it difficult to proceed at all, but, by clambering
over the huge tree trunks, in and out of filthy slime-filled
shell-holes, and nearly tearing oneself to pieces on the barbed wire
intermingled with the broken branches, we managed at last to reach the
village. Not a sound was to be heard. I turned to my companion.

"This is an extraordinary state of affairs, isn't it? In case there are
any Bosche rearguard patrols, we'll keep this side of the ruins as much
as possible."

The village was practically on the top of a ridge of hills. I stood
under the shadow of some tree-stumps and gazed around. What a scene of
desolation it was. I got my camera into action and took some excellent
scenes, showing what was once a beautiful main road: broken trees flung
over it in all directions like so many wisps of straw, and an
unimaginable mass of barbed wire entanglements. Then, swinging my camera
round, I obtained a panoramic view of the destroyed village. Dotted here
and there were the dead bodies of horses and men: how long they had lain
there Heaven knows!

While examining the ruins of a building which used to be a bakehouse I
received a startling surprise. I was bending down and looking into an
empty oven when, with a rush and a clatter, a fine black cat sprang at
my legs with a frightened, piteous look in its eyes,