There were casualties to-day. I am waiting for Thiébaut, my sergeant, and a squad of men, with whom I am going into the cantonment to-night at Nieuport. We are to meet at the First Aid Station and a few men are stretched out on litters moaning. There is one particularly, who is suffering terribly: he has been shot through the stomach and the surgeon says in a hushed voice he will die on the way to the rear. Poor chap, his breathing is labored. They are waiting for an English ambulance to carry them, which will arrive soon, I hope---- The odor of ether and dressings, mingled with the smell of blood, sickens me---- I go outside from time to time, to see if my men have not come up. A company of Fusiliers are being relieved and they file past me. One hears the hurried shuffling of feet. Then an artillery duel starts up. It is very dark in the street. The lantern hanging there casts sinister shadows on the men. Intermittently the sky is brightened up by enemy star-shell. Their lines are less than a mile away. A soldier passing says to his friend: "Look, _mon vieux_, at the red lantern--one of Nieuport's brothels!" THE LOCK-KEEPER'S HOUSE, NIEUPORT. _August_, 1915. Two of my men, Poulet and Chandonnay, were living in the cellar of the lock-keeper's home where they were guarding some material I had sent up. Also, there was a picket of Territorials. I left Poulet and Chandonnay this particular morning at the moment they themselves went to have dinner with their comrades a short distance away. I had given them leave until after breakfast because I wanted to make some changes in the arrangement of my precious storehouse. It was one of those little Flemish brick homes where the roof and two stories had been shattered by bombardment, nevertheless in much better condition than the neighboring ones. I, also, went to dinner on the other side of the locks, where the Marines held the sector. The bombardment had slackened somewhat, but from time to time 420's came over, and, exploding, shook everything. At the time I had fixed for the return of my _poilus_ to the cellar of the lock-keeper's home, I was not a little surprised to see them coming to meet me. "How is it," I said, "that you are not at your post where you should be, or in the dugout in safety?" "Our post," they replied, stupefied, "our post--what post, lieutenant?" "The lock-keeper's house." "It's gone!" I was a bit angry, but we at last arrived at the spot where it should have been. They were perfectly right. There was no more lock-keeper's house! A 420, during our absence, had literally fallen right on the roof of the cellar. "And the Territorials?" I asked. "Chopped meat, lieutenant, chopped meat----" A BOCHE WHO HAD ENOUGH, THE GREAT DUNE. _August_, 1915. It is night---- The sentinel is on duty at the extremity of the embankment of sandbags, which protects the pier from shells that are coming over fast.