opping flat on their faces,
getting up and running again, dodging into disused trenches, and
keeping every possible bit of shelter between themselves and the enemy
while they ran. As they came closer we could see that they were
French Moroccan troops, and evidently badly scared. Near us some of
them lay down in a trench and lit cigarettes for a moment or two, only
to start up in terror and run on again. Some of them even threw away
their equipment after they had passed, and they all looked at us with
the same expression that the dog had, evidently considering us to be
madmen to stay where we were. It was quite apparent that the Moroccan
troops had given way under the gas attack, and that a break, doubtless
a large one, had been made in the French front line.

Then our hearts swelled with a pride that comes but seldom in a man's
life--the pride of race. Up the road from Ypres came a platoon of
soldiers marching rapidly; they were Canadians, and we knew that our
reserve brigade was even now on the way to make the attempt to block
the German road to Calais.

Bullets began to come near. Neither of us said a word for a while as
we saw spurt after spurt of dust kicked up a few yards in front of us.

"I think we had better move, Colonel," said Captain Rankin at last. As
he spoke, a bullet split a brick in the road about three feet away
from me, and slid across the road leaving a trail of dust.

"I think we had," I said as I walked over, picked up the spent bullet
and dropped it in my pocket. Another bullet pinged over head and
another spat up the road dust in front of us. "Those are aimed
bullets," I said. "The Germans cannot be far away; it's time to move."
It was then about 6.30 and we walked back to Wieltze, near which we
met our anxious chauffeur coming out to meet me.

Canadian soldiers with boxes of cartridges on their shoulders ran up
the road towards the trenches; others carrying movable barb-wire
entanglements followed them. A company of Canadians took to the fields
on leaving Wieltze, and began advancing in short rushes in skirmishing
order towards the German front, while their officer walked on ahead
swinging his bamboo cane in the most approved fashion. Another company
was just leaving the village, loading their rifles as they hurried
along. I overheard one chap say, as he thrust a cartridge clip into
place, "Good Old Ross."

As we approached Wieltze we could see ammunition wagons galloping up
the other road