Lieutenant B----, the official "still" photographer, and I have been companions in a few strange enterprises in the war, but I doubt whether any have equalled in strangeness, and I might say almost uncanny, adventure that which I am about to record. In cold type it would be pardonable for anyone to disbelieve some of the facts set forth, but, as I have proved for myself the perfect application of the well-known saying that "truth is stranger than fiction," I merely relate the facts in simple language exactly as they happened, and leave them to speak for themselves. It was early morning on March 17th, 1917, when the Germans began their headlong flight towards their Cambrai, St. Quentin, or "Hindenburg" Line. When B---- and I hastened along the main St. Quentin Road, troops and transports were as usual everywhere. We passed through the ruined villages of Foscaucourt and Estrées and brought our car to a standstill about two kilometres from the village of Villers-Carbonel, it being impossible owing to the fearful road conditions to proceed further. We left the car and started off to explore the unknown. On either side of the road I noticed many troops in their trenches; they were looking down at us as if we were something out of the ordinary, until I turned to him and said: "Is there anything funny about us? These chaps seem to be highly interested in our appearance, or something. What is it?" "I don't know," he said, "let's enquire." So, going up to an R.A.M.C. officer, who was standing outside his dug-out, I asked him if there was any news--in fact I enquired whether there was a war on up there, everything seemed to be so absolutely quiet. "Well," he said, "there was up to about three hours ago; Bosche has fairly plastered us with 5.9 and whizz-bangs. These suddenly ceased, and, as a matter of fact, I began to wonder whether peace had been declared when your car came bounding up the road. How the devil did you manage it? Yesterday evening the act of putting one's head over the parapet was enough to draw a few shells; but you come sailing up here in a car." "This is about the most charming joy-ride I have had for many a day," I replied, "but let me introduce myself. I am Malins, the Official Kinematographer, and my friend here is the Official 'still' picture man. We are here to get scenes of the German retreat, but it seems to me that one cannot see Bosche for dust. That is Villers-Carbonel, is it not?" I said, pointing up the road in the distance. "Yes," he replied. "Right," I said, "we are going there and on our way back we'll tell you all the news." With a cheery wave of the hand he bade us adieu, and we started on our journey.