"I am going on," I said to the "still" man, "we cannot wait for the patrol, there's not time. Will you come?" "Yes," he said. I told the C.O. of my intention. "It's thundering risky," he said. "You're going into new ground again." I left Vraignes and advanced at a cautious pace in the direction of Haucourt. Rifle-fire was proceeding in the distance, which I judged was the other side of the village. A destroyed sugar refinery on the left was still smoking. It had been blown up by the Huns and the mass of machinery was flung and twisted about in all directions. In the village I stopped the car close by a crucifix, which was still standing. "Turn the car round," I said to my driver, "and keep the engine going, we may have to bolt for it." Then, shouldering the camera, I made my way up the main street. The place was a mass of smoking ruins; absolutely nothing was left. A huge mine had been blown up at a cross-road; all trees and bushes had been cut down. A piano, curiously enough, was lying in the roadway; the front had been smashed, and no doubt all the wires were hacked through by some sharp instrument, and the keys had all been broken. The Huns had evidently tried to take it away with their other loot, but finding it too heavy for quick transport had abandoned, then wilfully destroyed it to prevent its being used by others. The place was as silent as the grave. I filmed a few scenes which appealed to me, and was on the move towards the further end of the road when two of our cyclists suddenly came into view. I hurried up to them. "Any news?" I asked. "Where's Bosche?" The men were half dead with fatigue. Their legs were caked inches thick in mud, and it was only by a tremendous effort that they were able to lift their feet as they walked. They were pushing their cycles; the mud was caked thick between the wheels and the mudguards forming in itself a brake on the tyres. Fagged out as they obviously were they tried to smile at the reply one made. "Yes, the Bosche is about here outside the village," said one. "We had a small strong point last night over there," pointing in the distance, "myself and two pals. We were sitting in the hole smoking when nine Bosches jumped in on us. Well, sir, they managed to send my pal West, but that's all. Then we started and six Fritzes are lying out there now. The other three escaped. It made my blood boil, sir, when they did in my pal. I'm going to make a wooden cross, and then bury him. We had been together for a long time, sir, and--well--I miss my pal, but we got six for him and more to come, sir, more to come before we've finished." I thanked the man and sympathised with him over his loss and complimented him on his fight. "But it's not enough yet, sir, not enough." The two then struggled away, bent on their errand of making a cross for a pal. And as they disappeared among the ruins I wondered how many men in the world could boast of such a true friend. Very few, worse luck!