During one of our heavy bombardments recently I went into a little shop to make a small purchase. The building alongside had been shelled the previous week and had to be abandoned. The girl behind the counter was obviously nervous, and she said to me in broken English, 'Too much bombardment I do not like.' '_Tout Anglais_,' I replied. Immediately she brightened up wonderfully. '_Très bon pour les Allemands_,' she said, and went about her work singing. A curious note amid this quaint Flemish environment of red brick and tiles, interspersed with trees and grass of a greenness unknown to Australia, is produced by the London motor-buses. They rush past with a roar, filled with Tommies singing, 'Keep the home-fires burning.' From one end of the line to the other every man has his job. There are snipers, machine-gunners, trench-mortar men, bombers, signallers, pigeon-men. This last suggests the pigeon service. Men who _know_ pigeons are chosen for this work, and they like it. In the stress and strain of battle 'wireless' and 'wire' may break down, so pigeons are trained by a daily service of duplicate messages. They have their regular flights, and there is a constant service of cages being brought up to the lines by motor-bike, and flights of pigeons returning to their lots at stated times. We see the German birds flying back too, so that man, beast, and bird have all been drawn into this great war. They get very wise too, and the older pigeons fly low along the hedges and by the avenues of poplar-trees to avoid gunfire. The pigeon-man follows the commander into battle as well as the telephonist. But most useful and enthusiastic of all are the observers. 'O. Pip' observers' post is a place the enemy is always seeking to discover and 'knock out.' But they are cleverly hidden. The other day, however, one of our men fell by his enthusiasm. He was directing gunfire on an enemy battery, and by and by he got it. When the Hun gun position was hit he forgot for a moment how precarious a foothold he had in his eyrie in the spreading branches of a tree. 'We've got it!' he cried, standing up and waving his hands. He fell out of his perch and broke his leg. He is now rejoicing in a hospital. We must not forget the wonderful work of the miners. They drive tunnels and construct weird 'bomb-proofs' and other works, thus contributing their share to the coming deliverance in which everybody at the Front firmly believes. Yes, that little chapel is a parable and a prophecy. Itself intact amid the ruins, it reminds us that although we ourselves are imperfect instruments, our cause is good, and the day is surely coming when these farm-houses and churches will be rebuilt in this beautiful countryside and prosperity and peace will rule. Every gun-shot expresses our faith and what we suffer in the price we pay for freedom and security which shall be ours and for many long years our children's.