The bombardment continued steadily for about two hours and a half, until several houses were well alight and many others completely destroyed. Then about noon it stopped as suddenly as it had started. I wanted to go down and watch the firemen work, but the gendarme, who had produced an excellent bottle of no ordinary ‘_pinard_,’ said, ‘Wait awhile, my old, that is part of the system. They have only stopped to let the people come out. In a few minutes it will start again, when they will have more chance of killing somebody.’ But for once he was wrong, and after waiting with him for half an hour, I went down to the first house I had seen catch fire. The firemen were still there, working with hose and axe to prevent the fire from spreading. The four walls of the house were still standing, but inside there was nothing but a furnace which glowed and leapt into flame with every draught of air, so that the sparks flew over the neighbouring houses, and started other fires which the firemen were busy controlling. These _pompiers_ are no longer civilians. The black uniform and gay brass and leather helmet of Paris fashion have been replaced with the blue-grey of the _poilu_, with the regulation steel shrapnel casque or _bourguignotte_. The French press has had many accounts of their heroism since the beginning of the attack. Certainly if any of the town is left, it will be due to their efforts among the ruins. There are only eighty of them in the town. Half of them are men too old for ‘_active service_,’ yet they have stayed there for two months working night and day under the shells, with the strain of the bombardment added to the usual dangers from falling walls and fire. They are still as gay and eager as ever. Their spirit and motto is the same as that of every soldier and civilian who is doing hard work in these hard times. They all say, ‘It is war,’ or more often, ‘It is for France.’