This was a position indeed! Scooping away as much sand as possible from the front wheels, we put on full power, and tried to back the car out of it. But as the rear wheels were unable to grip in the sand it would not budge. While there the Germans must have seen our light, for suddenly a star-shell shot up from their position, illuminating the ground for a great distance. I swiftly pinched the tube of our headlight, so putting it out, then dropped full length on the sand. I observed my companion had done the same. We lay there for about ten minutes, not knowing what to expect, but luckily nothing happened. It was obvious that we could not move the car without assistance, so shouldering my apparatus we started to walk the remaining distance. Twice we were held up by sentries, but by giving the password we got through. Enquiring for the headquarters of Captain ----, we were directed to a ruined house which had been destroyed by German shell-fire. "Mon Capitaine is in the cellar, monsieur." Thinking that it would be a better introduction if I personally delivered the message to the Captain, I asked my chauffeur to let me do so. Asking the sentry at the door to take me to his Captain, we passed down some dozen steps and into a comfortably furnished cellar. Sitting round a little table were seven officers. I asked for Captain ----. "He is not here, monsieur," said one. "Is it urgent?" "I do not know," I replied. I was trying to form another reply in French, when an officer asked me in English if he could be of any service. I told him that an officer had given me a message to deliver on my journey here, but owing to an accident to the car I had had to walk. Taking the letter, he said he would send a messenger to the Captain with it. "You must be hungry, monsieur. Will you share a snack with us?" Gladly accepting their hospitality, I sat down with them. "Are you from London?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Do you know it?" "Yes, yes," he replied. "I was for three years there. But are you _militaire_?" he enquired. "Well, hardly that," I confess. "I am here to take kinema records of the war. I have come in this direction to film an action on the sand-dunes. Will you help me?" "I will do what I can for you," he replied. "We expect to make a sortie to-morrow morning. It will be very risky for you." "I will take my chance," I replied, "with you." Whilst our conversation proceeded, I noticed a scuffling on the cellar steps, then into the room came four soldiers with a man in peasant's clothes. He turned out to be a spy caught signalling in the dunes. They brought him in to have a cup of coffee before taking him out to be shot. He was asked if he would take sugar; his reply was "No." Presently there was a shot outside, and there was one spy the less.