For the next four or five days, I lived inside this spire, with a sub-officer. Twice only, a Belgian patrol paid us a visit. The rest of the time, only Germans prowled round. Many were the alerts which surprised us. A dozen men, belonging to the German infantry, spent half a day inspecting the abbey to see if there were really no Belgian soldier hidden there. Another day, just as we were looking through our window, we caught sight of a German patrol looking up. That was an alarming moment. We wondered what to do. If we moved away, it would make a change in the appearance of the window. By staying, we risked betraying ourselves and should probably be killed. This torture lasted half an hour. At a certain moment, I saw six men of the patrol take aim at the window. Fortunately, the sub-officer evidently thought better of it and did not give the command to fire. Remaining motionless had saved our lives. Two men who had inspected the tower had reported to their chief that there was nothing suspicious, and the seven Boches went away slowly, singing as they went. August 11th was fatal to us. In the morning, towards six o'clock, although I had taken the precaution to hide in a closed chapel, I was noticed by a man in the neighbourhood. Two hours later, when I was at my post of observation, I saw that the abbey, and particularly the church, was the aim of the enemy. After three or four trial shots, a shell reached the roof of the church and then the volleys were repeated quickly. I was just endeavouring to locate an enemy battery which was bombarding Fleron from Beau-Tilly. Whilst I was giving indications about this, I was obliged to climb up into the steeple, which was the only place of escape from the firing. Batteries concealed behind the Chenee station were destroying the abbey. What terrible moments I spent up there! I was alone in the steeple, as my companion had gone to take his meal and could not get back to me. I stayed there as long as I could give any useful information. For two long hours the projectiles rained on the abbey. Presently, the steeple itself was hit. A shell burst in the woodwork over my head, took off my forage cap, and smashed the telephone in front of me. I was almost buried under the heaps of slate and wood and was half stunned by the violence of the blow. I thought my last hour had come. It was only at that moment that I thought of my tragic position and, on turning round, I saw that the roof of the choir was on fire. It was quite time to get away. As I descended the ladder, I discovered that I was slightly wounded in the knee. It was only a big surface wound though. I pulled myself together, rushed quickly down and, amidst all the _debris_ that was falling on every side, made my way to the cellars, which the Fathers, the last few days, had been transforming into a shelter. An impressive scene awaited me there. In the middle of the subterranean vault, two Fathers and my