For ten minutes splinters swept the roadway continuously, and the stream of wounded ceased to pour by until the fury of the sudden bombardment had spent itself. The constant shock of concussion was nerve-racking. After a quarter of an hour the shells fell less frequently, though odd ones struck the road at intervals. Behind the Verlorenhoek-Hooge line was a smaller Salient, called the G.H.Q. line. It served as a support position, and between it and the canal were whole colonies of dug-outs. Much of the G.H.Q. line was so situated that a parapet of sandbags, in full sight of the German observers, made it a frequent target. On some days during the fighting that followed the casualties in the G.H.Q. line rivalled those in the front trenches. It was never a popular resting place, and was often the subject of much vituperation. General de Lisle and Lloyd returned to the car, and nearer Ypres made another halt to visit the reserve dug-outs in the fields toward the St. Jean road. "Take good cover, President," said the General, as he started across a shell-torn meadow. Easier said than done, I thought. The lee of a house wall sheltered an empty biscuit-tin, on which I perched, under a lean-to of rough boards. The sky showed a fairy blue through hundreds of holes in the sheet-iron roof of the rudely constructed shed, evidence that a bursting shell above had "scattered" splendidly. In spite of shell interludes I had one or two interesting chats with passers-by. A hospital corps sergeant told me the Huns shelled the Zonnebeke road, beside which we were chatting, every time they saw a transport on it. "They give it hell when something moves over it," he said impressively. "Just let us bring an ambulance up here in the daytime, and see them get busy, the devils." "That's nice," said I. "Do you think they could see my car when it went up to Potijze?" "Sure," he replied with conviction. "Sure. If they haven't shelled you yet they _will_, all right, don't _you_ worry." He left me cogitating, as he strode off whistling, evidently unaware he had put anything but comforting ideas in my head. All those who came from "up there" agreed as to one thing--the storm of howitzer-shells made one's chance of living through a "turn in the trenches" extremely slim. Many men were undeniably demoralised by it. "The few of my poor chaps that are left," a 28th Division subaltern told me, "seem to have the idea their number is up. They keep saying that if they don't get it to-day they'll sure get it to-morrow. Hardly any of them have much hope of getting out alive. I keep trying to hearten 'em, but it's rotten work. Every time I rip out something intended to be cheerful along comes a Jack Johnson and blows up a whole bally section of trench, burying alive those it don't kill. Then the poor beggars alongside just nod at each other and say: 'You and me next, Bill,' and what in hell _can_ I tell 'em?