which forks at Wieltze and runs to Langemarck. Turning
into the fields they would wheel sharply, deposit their loads, and
gallop wildly off again for more ammunition, while the crashes and
flashes of the guns showed that they were being served with redoubled
vigor.

At the edge of the village the peasant, whom we had seen preparing his
little garden and sowing seeds earlier in the afternoon, came down to
the gate and asked rather apologetically if we thought that the
Germans would be there to-night; "in any case did monsieur not think
it would be wise for the women and children to leave?"

Behind him, standing about the door steps, were the members of his
family, each with a bundle suited to their respective ages. The
smallest, a girl about six years of age, had a tiny bundle in a
handkerchief; the next, a boy about eight, had a larger one. All were
dressed in their best Sunday clothes, and carried umbrellas--a wise
precaution in the climate of Flanders. We agreed with him that it was
wise to move away, because it would be possible to return, if the
Germans were driven back, whereas if they stayed they might be killed.

As we talked to the father, the eldest, a boy of eighteen, came down
to the gate with his grandmother, a little old lady perhaps eighty
years of age, and weighing about as many pounds. The boy stooped down
to pick her up in his arms, but she shook her head in indignant
protest. Accordingly he crouched down, she put her arms around his
neck, he took her feet under his arms, and set off down the road
towards Ypres with the rest of the family trailing behind him. About
ten o'clock that night my friend, Captain Eddie Robertson, standing
with his regiment on the roadside ten miles nearer Poperinge, waiting
for orders to advance, noticed a youth with a little old lady on his
back, trudging by in the stream of fleeing refugees.

Wieltze was a picture; the kind of moving picture that the movie man
would pay thousands for, but never can obtain. The old adage held that
you always see the best shots when you have no gun. Small detachments
of Canadian troops moved rapidly through the streets. Around the
Canadian Advanced Dressing Station was a crowd of wounded Turcos and
Canadians waiting their turn to have their wounds dressed. All the
civilians were loading their donkey or dog carts with household goods
and setting out towards Ypres, sometimes driving their cows before
them.

As we climbed into the car, whi