On April 27th the three of us started out after 5 o'clock to the
Canadian area in search of news. The military policeman on the road at
the outskirts of Poperinge on being queried said, "All right, no
shells to-day in Pop." But we got only about 150 yards into the town
when there was a terrific hair-raising explosion near us, followed by
showers of bricks and bits of whizzing shell. It was a shell of very
high calibre, and as we passed the next cross street and looked up
it, we could see four houses settling into dust and a few people
running towards the spot. A telephone wire cut by a flying fragment
fell upon a car just ahead of us. It looked funny to see the doors of
the houses along the street belch forth their inmates who rushed to
the shutters, banged them to, rushed in again and no doubt hid
themselves in the cellars. It reminded us exactly of the actions of a
flock of chickens when a hawk appears in the sky.
A moment after, as we were leaving the town, another shell went
screaming overhead, exploded to our right near the station close to
the road, while a third went off on our left. Some Belgian soldiers
who were bringing in a wounded man on their shoulders dropped flat
upon the ground, letting the poor wounded chap fall with a crash. We
opened the throttle and speeded on. A motor ambulance convoy loaded
with wounded flew by us toward the base; in fact everything on the
road was going at top speed that evening.
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