"Be quiet with your own telephone. 'Allo, 'allo! Yes--yes. Gentlemen--ladies--I pray you be silent. 'Allo! Yes--mon Colonel. Oh, what is then--Lieutenant who?" And so on! We were asked to write our names in the pocket-books of all our hosts. Then someone said "Music," and in a moment we were all round the piano that had been brought from a shelled farmhouse in our honour. The telephones were still busy, and one young lieutenant got orders to go to the top of a very tall chimney that remained standing "to observe, as there was a certain movement along the front." His comrades mocked him, crisping their fingers, as if climbing hand over hand up the long iron ladders. "You make a good target, George," one wit said soothingly. George bade us good-night, looking annoyed. We heard him in the passage directing his sergeant to go up the chimney and waken him if necessary! Chris played and sang song after song; every chorus caught up and re-echoed. Then in a lull we heard steps outside and a heavy banging on the shutter, and as we listened a pure tenor voice lilted: "Good-bye, Piccadilly, Good-bye, Leicester Square; It's a long, long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there." "De ---- de ----!" everyone shouted, and Captain de ---- entered, smiling. "Where have you come from?" we asked, for we had last seen him at Calais. "My battery is seven miles from here, and they telephoned to me you ladies were here, so behold me!" We had more songs, and then the Belgian National Anthem. It was a fine and inspiring thing to hear--sung from their hearts by these big, strong men who were offering their lives daily for their king and country, and sung as it was to the tune played by Chris, with her lovely girlish face, and the deep booming of the guns to render it still more effective. I shall never forget it. Then out in the darkness we groped our way to our car, thinking the day's adventures were ended. Along the sky the rockets and star shells blazed and spluttered, lighting us for the moment, and then leaving the darkness still more oppressive around us. It took much pushing and shoving to get the "Petit Camerade" on to the roadway, and our hosts bade us good-bye heartily, though in whispers, as we were very near the "movement along the front." FOOTNOTE: [10] All numerals relate to stories told herein--not to chapters in the book. "FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES"--A MIDSHIPMAN'S LOG _Told by a Dartmouth Student (Name Suppressed)_