The sport lasted an hour and they did not change the elevation of their artillery, fortunately. I was prepared that day to await calmly anything that came. One gets accustomed, progressively, to chatting unconcernedly and without a trembling of the voice when waiting for a mocking death that does not come---- "But I have it," said Reymond. "I know why it is called the Brick Bridge--because the brickyard is opposite----!" So we were satisfied that day. THE QUEEN'S FLAG. _July_ 21, 1915. To-day it is the anniversary-fête of the independence of Belgium, and as we are at the extreme point of the Allied line of defense, on Belgian territory, a captain of the 8th Tirailleurs and myself had the idea of raising a little Belgian flag on the listening post at the Great Dune. The enemy's listening post faced us and was only fifteen yards from our own. It was there we exchanged, in ordinary times, bread, packages of tobacco, newspapers, hand grenades and rifle shots---- We went to search for a flag that was red, yellow and black, at the dugout of the chaplain of the 16th Territorials, who had ornamented the altar of his chapel with French colors and those of the Allies. The breeze was fresh enough and our little flag waved haughtily in the face of our adversary. All day the Germans, as if enraged, fired volleys at our flag. The cloth was riddled with bullets, the staff itself split in two pieces. When it fell one of our Tirailleurs went crouching out and replaced it. That night I took it down myself, rolled it up and carried it back. The following day I sent the flag to Dr. Depage at La Panne. A few hours later it graced the boudoir of Queen Elizabeth. "Ah," said our Tirailleurs, "it brings him good luck, this souvenir of July 21--she has kept it!" MR. VEDOVELLI'S BOXES, NIEUPORT. _August_, 1915. To-day the sun is atrociously hot and the river Yser and the canals exhale nauseating puffs from decaying bodies and carrion flesh which are not very agreeable to the nostrils. Toward nightfall I found an ideal spot to rest: the Sub-commandant's Post North, on the road to Lombaertzyde. I am comfortably seated in a wicker armchair by the side of Commandant Martel and we have seen the penumbra deepen as darkness falls. Jupiter sparkles in the heavens; in the distance vagrant flashes of fire appear like a lingering hunting party. We are waiting for a squad of Territorials to bring up several portable storage batteries (Vedovelli's system) to light the commandant's post. They were contained in cumbersome boxes and the good man had provided adjustable handles in order to make the work easier for the men. These he had shown to us. But I was not a bit surprised when my Territorials did not arrive at the appointed time, because, in spite of Vedovelli's "handles," the boxes were so heavy as to be scarcely movable.