"Those are aimed
bullets," I said. "The Germans cannot be far away; it's time to move."
It was then about 6.30 and we walked back to Wieltze, near which we
met our anxious chauffeur coming out to meet me.
Canadian soldiers with boxes of cartridges on their shoulders ran up
the road towards the trenches; others carrying movable barb-wire
entanglements followed them. A company of Canadians took to the fields
on leaving Wieltze, and began advancing in short rushes in skirmishing
order towards the German front, while their officer walked on ahead
swinging his bamboo cane in the most approved fashion. Another company
was just leaving the village, loading their rifles as they hurried
along. I overheard one chap say, as he thrust a cartridge clip into
place, "Good Old Ross."
As we approached Wieltze we could see ammunition wagons galloping up
the other road which forks at Wieltze and runs to Langemarck. Turning
into the fields they would wheel sharply, deposit their loads, and
gallop wildly off again for more ammunition, while the crashes and
flashes of the guns showed that they were being served with redoubled
vigor.
At the edge of the village the peasant, whom we had seen preparing his
little garden and sowing seeds earlier in the afternoon, came down to
the gate and asked rather apologetically if we thought that the
Germans would be there to-night; "in any case did monsieur not think
it would be wise for the women and children to leave?"
Behind him, standing about the door steps, were the members of his
family, each with a bundle suited to their respective ages.
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