I said I was and we set out. The path extended only a part of the way,
to a place perhaps two hundred feet beyond the road, where what we
would call a cyclone cellar in America had been dug out of the
hillside. Like the others of the sort I had seen, it was muddy and
uninviting, practically a cave with a roof of turf.
The path ceased, and it was necessary to go diagonally up the steep
hillside through the snow. From numberless guns at the base of the
hill came steady reports, and as we ascended it was explained to me
that I was about to visit the headquarters of Major General H----,
commanding an army division.
"The last person I brought here," said the young officer, smiling,
"was the Prince of Wales."
We reached the top at last. There was a tiny farmhouse, a low stable
with a thatched roof, and, towering over all, the arms of a great
windmill. Chickens cackled round my feet, a pig grunted in a corner,
and apparently from directly underneath came the ear-splitting reports
of a battery as it fired.
"Perhaps I would better go ahead and tell them you are coming," said
the officer. "These people have probably not seen a woman in months,
and the shock would be too severe. We must break it gently."
So he went ahead, and I stood on the crest of that wind-swept hill and
looked across the valley to Messines, to Wytschaete and Ypres.
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