Something of the
tragedy of Belgium was in his face.
"We were very proud of it," he said. "If we started now to build
another it would take more than seven hundred years to give it
history."
There were shells overhead. But they passed harmlessly, falling either
into the open country or into distant parts of the town. We paid no
attention to them, but my curiosity was roused.
"It seems absurd to continue shelling the town," I said. "There is
nothing left."
Then and there I had a lesson in the new warfare. Bombardment of the
country behind the enemy's trenches is not necessarily to destroy
towns. Its strategical purpose, I was told, is to cut off
communications, to prevent, if possible, the bringing up of reserve
troops and transport wagons, to destroy ammunition trains. I was new
to war, with everything to learn. This perfectly practical explanation
had not occurred to me.
"But how do they know when an ammunition train is coming?" I asked.
"There are different methods. Spies, of course, always. And aeroplanes
also."
"But an ammunition train moves."
It was necessary then to explain the various methods by which
aeroplanes signal, giving ranges and locations. I have seen since that
time the charts carried by aviators and airship crews, in which every
hedge, every ditch, every small detail of the landscape is carefully
marked.
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