From the windows of our headquarters château the fires of Ypres could be seen burning brightly all night, a red splash on the inky black of the horizon. Bursting shells and the flash of our guns never ceased. Bright stars dotted the dark canopy overhead, and brilliant trench-flares rose and fell in graceful arcs. The wonderful, ever-changing sight and the continual diapason of the heavy explosives was awe-inspiring. Early morning usually came with a lull in the gun-fire on both sides, unless an attack was in progress. We hurried through breakfast on the 11th, and lost no time in getting away for Potijze. General de Lisle, Major "Bertie" Fisher, of the 17th Lancers, who had joined de Lisle's Staff as G.S.O. 2 (in place of Major Fitzgerald, promoted to G.S.O. 1 of the 2nd Cavalry Division), and Captain Hardress Lloyd were my passengers. The rumph! r-r-rumph! of itinerant Black Marias told us that German hate still held against shattered Ypres. As we approached the town one or two heavy explosions were followed by a cloud of dust and smoke where the shells had fallen on a building already a heap of _débris_ and scattered its remains high in the air. At the railway crossing west of Ypres several newly made shell-chasms made me pick my path warily. All the way to the Grande Place shell-holes and gathering piles of rubbish and timbers made progress difficult. The space in front of the cathedral was knee-deep in loose paving blocks and stones. As we turned the corner of the Cloth Hall, and could see the battered square, our sight was arrested by brilliant sheets of scarlet flame edged black, that shot across the Rue de Menin ahead of us. The bright morning sun and blue, cloudless sky above, the grey and white ruins on every hand, and the blood-red, leaping, straining, struggling patch of angry flame that roared in our faces as we drew near to it, made a picture that would have delighted the heart of an artist. I stopped the car. The General at first counselled rushing through the fire, but I dreaded the result. Even should we have dashed past unscathed, the thought of the petrol in the car made me hesitate. Then, beyond the conflagration, we saw that a house at the western approach to the Menin bridge had been knocked over by a shell, and so fallen that it completely blocked the road. Half a hundred men must work for hours before the Menin bridge would once more be open for traffic, though fortunately the bridge itself was undamaged. Reversing the car and regaining the Grande Place, I threaded my way past deep holes in the _pavé_, and cautiously clambered over piles of _débris_ as we sought another route eastward. Along a street where desolation reigned supreme we went, until we reached the eastern moat wall. Turning north, we sought an outlet on the St. Jean road.