llage in a hollow at the head of a
valley. So steeply did the hill rise out of the hollow to the north that
the village was certainly in dead ground. A fine road went to the west
along the valley for three miles or so to the Soissons-Rheims road. For
Venizel you crossed the main road and ran down a little hill through a
thick wood, terribly dark of nights, to the village; you crossed the
bridge and opened the throttle.

The first time I rode north from Venizel, Moulders was with me. On the
left a few hundred yards away an ammunition section that had crossed by
the pontoon was at full gallop. I was riding fast--the road was
loathsomely open--but not too fast, because it was greasy. A shell
pitched a couple of hundred yards off the road, and then others, far
enough away to comfort me.

A mile on the road bends sharp left and right over the railway and past
a small factory of some sort. The Germans loved this spot, and would
pitch shells on it with a lamentable frequency. Soon it became too much
of a routine to be effective. On shelling-days three shells would be
dropped one after another, an interval of three minutes, and then
another three. This we found out and rode accordingly.

A hundred yards past the railway you ride into Bucy-le-Long and safety.
The road swings sharp to the right, and there are houses all the way to
St Marguerite.

Once I was riding with despatches from D.H.Q. It was a heavy, misty day.
As I sprinted across the open I saw shrapnel over St Marguerite, but I
could not make out whether it was German shrapnel bursting over the
village or our shrapnel bursting over the hills beyond. I slowed down.

Now, as I have told you, on a motor-cycle, if you are going rapidly, you
cannot hear bullets or shells coming or even shells bursting unless they
are very near. Running slowly on top, with the engine barely turning
over, you can hear everything. So I went slow and listened. Through the
air came the sharp "woop-wing" of shrapnel bursting towards you, the
most devilish sound of all. Some prefer the shriek of shrapnel to the
dolorous wail and deep thunderous crash of high explosive. But nothing
frightens me so much as the shrapnel-shriek.[14]

Well, as I passed the little red factory I noticed that the shrapnel was
bursting right over the village, which meant that as 80 per cent of
shrapnel bullets shoot forward the village was comparatively safe. As a
matter of fact the street was full of ricochetting tri