For four miles the Allied trenches were left unprotected, and a quarter million Germans who had been awaiting this opportune moment, started to pour through the broad gap on their drive for Calais. A brigade of Canadian artillery in Poperinghe received a hurried message that evening to move forward, take up a position on the road near Ypres and wait for further orders. They had but a faint notion of the great trial through which they were to pass. When they arrived at the point designated it was almost dark and the noise of the German bombardment was terrific. Presently along the road from Ypres came crowds of fleeing civilians. Feeble old men tottering along, tearful women carrying their babes or dragging other little ones by the hand, invalids in broken down waggons or wheel-barrows, wounded civilians hastily bandaged and supported by their despairing friends hurried by in ever-increasing numbers. Some had little bundles under their arms, some with packs upon their backs—bedding, household goods or clothes, hastily snatched from their shattered homes. With white terror-stricken faces, wringing their hands, moaning or crying, they ran or staggered by in thousands. Their homes destroyed, their friends scattered or killed, with death behind and starvation before, they ran, and the greedy shells, as if incensed at being robbed of their prey, came screaming after them. To add to the confusion and horror of the evening, the Turcos, wild-eyed and capless, having thrown away their guns and all encumbrances, came running in stark terror across the fields shouting that the Germans had broken through and would be upon them any moment. They cried to the artillery to escape while they yet had a chance—that all was lost! It required more heroism to stand before that onrush of terrorised humanity than to face death a dozen times over. To the Canadian artillery these were the most tragic and trying hours of their lives, but with stolid and grim determination they stood through it, waiting impatiently for the order to move forward. All through the night the homeless, despairful creatures from St. Julien, Vlamertinge, Ypres and the villages round about streamed by in a heartrending, bemoaning multitude. Sometimes in agonised fear they broke through the ranks of the soldiers, stumbling onward toward Poperinghe. The shriek of shells and the thunder of the guns continued hour after hour, while on high the vivid glare of bursting shrapnel cast a weird unearthly glow over the land. Between the blasts of artillery, from time to time on the wings of the wind, human cries blending in a gruesome murmur added to the horror of the night. Through it all those men of iron stood by their guns waiting for the word of command. At 3.00 a.m. it came. A murmur of thankfulness that at last they were to do something went up, and in a twinkling they were galloping eagerly forward toward their objective.