The going is worse, and we stop to get our bearings. We shout and presently a form rises from the darkness. At any hour of the day or night it is possible to rouse by one or more shouts any number of men anywhere. You can see no one, as the world, for obvious reasons, lives underground in the rabbit burrows of _abris_, but when needed comes forth in force. This is very convenient, as often when driving at night one finds his car stuck in the middle of a new and large shell-hole, and help is necessary. We ask our location. “_Ah, oui, M’sieu, P-trois!_” We have come by error to the artillery _poste_ and must retrace our way. We exchange cigarettes with the friendly _brancardier_ and set off again. At last we get back on the right road, and after making another turn are nearing the _poste_. In the last gleams from a star-shell ahead we see something grey by the side of the road. As we are in the woods I take a quick look with my flash. It is one of our ambulances. My friend and I look at each other, and are mutually glad that it is too dark to see each other’s face. A careful survey of the surroundings yields nothing, and we press on—in silence. We jolt into the _poste_ with racing motor and wheels clogged with mud, and go down into the very welcome _abri_. Our friends there know nothing about the ambulance, so we hope for the best. Friendships at the front are for the most part sincere—but sometimes short. * * * * * IT is about ten o’clock in the evening. We have been given a load at P 2 and are returning to the hospital. We turn from the battered Bois d’Avocourt into the Bois de Récicourt, and passing through the Bois de Pommiers roll into the valley. We cross through the town, and when the sentry lifts the gate pull slowly up the hill towards Brocourt. Punctually at five-thirty this evening twelve shells whistled over Récicourt and struck the hill, but fortunately not the road. This hill makes a perfect target for the Boche, for if he falls short he hits the town, if he overshoots he will probably hit the hospital, and if he hits what he aims at he may get the road. Consequently there are intermittent bombardments at all hours of the day and night—preferably at night as there is more traffic on the roads. There is one time that the Boche never fails to greet us. That is five-thirty. Every day while I was there, as the hour struck, or would have struck had the clock been left to strike it, twelve shells whistled over Récicourt and knocked fruit from the orchard on the hill. If the Boche were sentimental, we would say it was the early twilight that made him do this, but as we remember Belgium we call it habit. There are several big _rôtis_ set up by the roadside like kilo-stones to remind us that to roll at five-thirty is _verboten_.