ry flash of lurid flame stabbed the darkness away over the
Belgian coast, and was followed by the rumble of a great but distant
explosion, no one stood on his head or lost his breath blowing up a
patent waistcoat, but all remained at the "still." Minutes passed and
nothing happened. Slowly the destroyer crept closer inshore, but the
night was dark and no further sound broke its stillness.

For two hours she scouted and listened. Little more than five miles away
lay the German lines, and the theory was that somewhere in that maze of
trenches and batteries an explosion had occurred.

Next day the mystery deepened, for it became known that a large portion
of Nieuport Pier had been blown away during the night. As this little
seaport was, however, inside the German lines, the mystery remained
unexplained until after the bombardment of Zeebrugge, when it became
known, in _divers_ manner, that one of the electrically controlled boats
had been out on a night manoeuvre and, owing to the difficulties of
seaplane observation in the dark, had accidentally struck the breakwater
of Nieuport.

* * * * *

Many of the patrol boats guarding the Straits of Dover or minesweeping
under the fire of German coast batteries off the Belgian sand-dunes
spent their days or nights of rest (!) in the French seaport of Dunkirk,
returning to Dover only after considerable periods of work on the
opposite coast.

It may be thought that there was but little difference between life in
the British port and that in the French town, considering the short
stretch of sea between them. The following account of a night in Dunkirk
will, however, give some idea of the advantage gained by having even
thirty miles of blue water between an active enemy and a comfortable
bed.

A NIGHT IN DUNKIRK

The night seemed uncannily quiet. In time of peace it would have passed
unnoticed as just ideal summer weather, but when the human ear had grown
accustomed to the almost perpetual thunder of the Flanders guns any
cessation of the noise gave a feeling of disquietude, only to be
likened to the hush of great forests before a tropical storm. The little
town of Dunkirk, with its many ruins, was bathed in shadow, unrelieved
by any artificial light, but the narrow, tortuous harbour showed a
silvery streak in the brilliant moonrays. Above the sleeping town, with
its Poilu sentries and English sailors, was the deep indigo sky,
spangled with sta