unged
into a forest, lashing and biting and tearing in his agony until he
died.

On one side of the hill was a little crazy cottage which had
marvellously escaped. Three shells had fallen within ten yards of it.
Two had not burst, and the other, shrapnel, had exploded in the earth.
The owner came out, a trifling, wizened old man in the usual Belgian cap
and blue overalls. We had a talk, using the _lingua franca_ of French,
English with a Scottish accent, German, and the few words of Dutch I
could remember.

We dug up for him a large bit of the casing of the shrapnel. He examined
it fearfully. It was an 11-inch shell, I think, nearly as big as his wee
grotesque self. Then he made a noise, which we took to be a laugh, and
told us that he had been very frightened in his little house (haeusling),
and his cat, an immense white Tom, had been more frightened still. But
he knew the Germans could not hit him. Thousands and thousands of
Germans had gone by, and a little after the last German came the
English. "Les Anglais sont bons."

This he said with an air of finality. It is a full-blooded judgment
which, though it sounds a trifle exiguous to describe our manifold
heroic efforts, is a sort of perpetual epithet. The children use it
confidingly when they run to our men in the cafes. The peasants use it
as a parenthetical verdict whenever they mention our name. The French
fellows use it, and I have heard a German prisoner say the same.

A few days later those who lived on Kemmel were "evacuated." They were
rounded up into the Convent yard, men and women and children, with their
hens and pigs. At first they were angry and sorrowful; but nobody, not
even the most indignant refugee, could resist our military policemen,
and in three-quarters of an hour they all trudged off, cheerfully
enough, along the road to Bailleul.

The wee grotesque man and his immense white cat were not with them.
Perhaps they still live on Kemmel. Some time I shall go and see....

If we did not play Bridge after our walks, we would look in at the
theatre or stroll across to dinner and Bridge with Gibson and his
brother officers of the K.O.S.B., then billeted at Locre.

Not all convents have theatres: this was a special convent. The Signal
Company slept in the theatre, and of an evening all the kit would be
moved aside. One of the military policemen could play anything; so we
danced and sang until the lights went out. The star performer was
"Spot," th