us. The officer's face, beneath his steel helmet,
was troubled and disapproving. He hit at an
automobile tire with his cane.
"Get those cars away from here," he commanded shortly. "This crossroads is a nice place for shells this morning."
Several craters near by were sufficient testimony, so we clambered out, and, at Williams' direction, threw our hats in the cars, put on the steel helmets, and made sure that our gas masks were safe. We followed our guide around the ruin while the cars with an air of flight dashed away.
The brigade officer led me down a lane which offered scarcely more cover than the road. The others followed in a straggling line. My guide glanced back, nodding approvingly.
“We're a less tempting target that way," he said.
I looked ahead. Fully a mile away, at the end of the lane, arose another ruined wall—the nearest shelter from the eyes in that distorted balloon. It assumed the remoteness and the desirability of an explorer's goal. Then more than the confusing roar of gun fire pointed its distance. Overhead shells commenced to scream, and as we walked on, that evil sound came oftener and grew louder, until it, too, was near and perpetual.
