Groups of officers and men were moving about among the ruins of the
town. They were all young men, whose laughter and jokes contrasted
grimly with the terrible howl of the guns and the crash of the
projectiles which were still falling in the town. The French batteries
added to the noise. Nothing can describe the terrible power of the heavy
French artillery. The voice of the guns pierced my ear drums. Though
they were posted at a considerable distance, one might almost think them
close at hand. As a shell passes over your head it reminds you of a
hurricane blowing through the bare branches of a forest.
Accompanied by my chauffeur, I ran through streets which he pointed out
as being more dangerous than others. They were being shelled from the
flank by the Germans, and sometimes, I was told, accidents would occur;
that is, somebody would be killed by a shell flying along the street
from one end to the other. One feels one's self much more at ease in
the streets which intersect these thoroughfares at right angles.
In one spot I met a Red Cross motor ambulance laden with wounded, and
going in the midst of the gravest danger, in the direction of Furnes. At
another point we saw a French Captain, who, in a stern voice, ordered
his soldiers to keep away from the middle of the street. These men were
not on duty for the moment and were chatting as merrily as if they were
in no danger.
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