great system in action came shortly after my arrival at the front near Zillebeke, where, while waiting for assignment to duty, we watched the supplies coming through. Fresh supplies vast quantities of them — arrive every day from the various seaports, brought on trains which deposit them at the 'rail-head,' or private railway station with which every army, army corps, and division is provided. The trains are met by motor-lorries or trucks, which swing into the yards, range up in long lines alongside the freight cars, load up, and pull away again in surprisingly short time. As they drew out of the yards, I noticed that they fell automatically into little groups, and, on inquiry, found that, before the column is formed, all lorries containing a certain kind of supplies go in one group, lining up until in an orderly arrangement of, say, twelve trucks of meat, ten trucks of bread, so many trucks of clothing, groceries, petrol, mechanical stores, and so on, until a column consisting of, perhaps, one hundred lorries stands ready to start toward the front.

The order given, off they go, to the clatter of chains and open exhausts. The roads of Belgium were once good roads, but the endless stream of heavy traffic has reduced them to a fearful condition, despite the efforts of the Royal Engineers and 'Jack Ward's battalions' the large semi-military force of navvies and laborers recruited in London by a patriotic contractor for just such badly needed work as highway repairing. Down the middle of these roads runs a strip of cobblestones -greasy, full of holes, but still cobblestones; on either side there is mud, a slough of despond for the unwary driver. Many a time, in winter, I have seen lorries so hopelessly stuck that it is impossible to get them out for the moment. All that can be done is to transfer the load to another car and leave

the derelict by the roadside to the tender mercies of the salvage companies or the nearest portable mechanical transport workshop.

Before going to the front I had never so much as thought of the problem of caring for the great number of cars that are disabled in the day's run; so that I was surprised to find what thorough high-class work is done by these portable workshops. Mounted on lorry chassis, they present the appearance of box-cars, the sides of which, in service, are lowered to a horizontal position and serve as platforms for the crew to stand on when manipulating the lathe or dynamo inside. Power is furnished by a special gasoline motor. The mechanics employed in these workshops are all highly trained men, who are obliged to pass the most severe tests before they are accepted for this branch of the service. Most of them have been building cars in England, and they are often allowed to specialize on the make with which they are most familiar. If an automobile is beyond the help of these first-aid specialists, it is immediately sent to one of the dépôts where there is a permanent workshop, and another vehicle is sent up to the front to take its place. No cars are kept running if they are not in first-class condition, and every precaution is taken to avoid accidents due to defective machines. Practically all makes of cars are to be seen at the front. Each kind is assigned to the work to which it is best adapted, the fast cars, generally speaking being used for dispatch work, and also for carrying officers to and from the firing-line; the steadier cars find their niche in ambulance work and other duties where speed is a secondary matter.

These details I noted down in the impersonal way of the cavalryman, who is supposed to be concerned with other matters. While we were still at Zillebeke, however, the driver of General

Byng's car was killed, and, as I knew there was a shortage of competent drivers, I made the somewhat irregular request to take his place. This was granted, to my surprise-and pleasure; for I had heard that all our untrained men were shortly to be sent back to England to finish their course at the riding school. Although I had had considerable experience in driving cars at home, I was glad that the general was partial to slow going and objected strenuously to being bumped. This enabled me to lead up gradually to the more severe demands that were made on me when, shortly after, I was attached to the Headquarters Staff of the 5th Army Corps. Here I was treated to my first, and only, ride into action with an armored car.

The armored car is unquestionably the most wicked-looking thing at the front, and its lines, its whole appearance, give the suggestion of an unlimited capacity for slaughter. The entire body of the car is made of finest sheet steel, nearly half an inch thick; in the place of the tonneau there is a revolving steel turret mounting a rapid-fire gun or a three-pounder. The engine is protected by the same quality of armor as the body, and the vulnerable radiator finds safety behind two steel doors, which, when the car goes into action, are adjusted so as to leave a small opening for the circulation of air. An apron of steel extends round the wheels to within a foot of the ground, guarding as far as possible the pneumatic tires. However, in spite of this precaution and the use of double tires on each wheel, I have seen cars come limping home with all eight tires flat.

The crew of an armored car is a variable quantity, but there are always two drivers. It was the lack of a spare driver that led to my being ordered one day to sit beside the man at the wheel of a car that was just going into

VOL. 117 - NO.5

action. In case anything had happened to him, I should have had to take his place. As we drew into the zone of the enemy's fire, the bullets began to hit our car, first scatteringly, then in a regular shower, coming at the rate of a hundred a minute and beating a devil's tattoo on our armor. The din made by bullets on this steel plating is amazing. It sounds as if some one were striking with a hammer, and striking hard, too. I did not know that, so far as the ordinary rifle-bullet is concerned, these armored cars are practically invulnerable, and I expected any moment to find the metal giving way under the shock. We were in action only about ten minutes, but in that short time the terrific noise of our own gun and the scoring bullets, the heaving and lurching of the car, the semi-darkness, and, worst of all, my own inactivity, almost broke my nerve. There was absolutely nothing to do but sit still and receive new sensations; and the unpleasantness of these was indescribable. When we finally got back to safety, I climbed out and took a look at the car, expecting to find it pockmarked and dented beyond recognition. Except for a few small depressions in the armor and a couple of holes through the mudguards where pieces of shrapnel had struck, there was scarcely a trace of our ordeal by fire. Not a single bullet had penetrated.

The armored car gives unlimited opportunities for the exercise of nerve and initiative, and no man in the war availed himself of these more fully than the famous Commander Sampson, of the Royal Naval Air Service. This officer (for whose capture, dead or alive, the Germans were reported to have offered twenty thousand marks) was equally at home in an aeroplane or an armored car. I have never seen him at work as an aviator, but the town in which we had our headquarters was the starting

place for his amazing trips in his car. Just where he went, and how he got there, is more or less of a mystery. All we knew was that at four o'clock in the morning or thereabouts, Commander Sampson would leave Hazebrouck, and, hours later, come rolling back into the square, almost invariably with a batch of German prisoners!

His arrival at headquarters was the event of the day. Every one in sight would come rushing forward to see what sort of game he had bagged. From the stories that followed these exploits, he must have taken his car right into the German lines-a feat which was as dangerous as you please, but not literally impossible. Few people seem to realize that many of the highways leading cross-country and connecting the hostile lines had not then been destroyed. They were formidably guarded by barbedwire barricades, and their surface was torn and pitted by shell-holes; but neither side was willing to eliminate a means of communication which would be of vast value in case of an advance.

These are the roads that Commander Sampson must have used on his swift trips of destruction. On the front of his car was a formidable arrangement of upright scythe-like wire-cutters, strong enough to rip through the entanglements and bunt the wooden supportingposts out of the way; and with these, backed by the momentum of the ponderous car, he forced his way on steelstudded tires through barbed-wire and shot and shell, and accomplished the impossible not once, but again and again. His car would come back looking as though it had been through a thousand years of war, but the occupants were generally safe and sound, and, as I say, they had things to show that they had given the Germans cause to regret receiving a visit from Commander Sampson. So far as I am aware, no one has yet come forward to claim

that reward of twenty thousand marks.

It was not long after my outing in the armored car that I was detailed to duty in the Motor-cycle Machine-gun Section as motor-cycle driver. The machines used in this work are much lighter and smaller than the American type. They carry a sidecar attachment; but in place of the familiar 'wife-killer,' a rapid-fire gun is mounted, and the comfortable cushioned seat gives way to a wooden affair so small that the gunner practically holds his rapid-firer in his lap. On his right is the box with the loaded belts of ammunition. When he threads these through the gun and starts firing, the belt uncoils smoothly and falls into an empty box on the other side of the machine.

I was almost ignorant of the workings of the section when our battery of four machines first went into action; and when, after the rush and clatter of getting into position, my gunner began to pour streams of bullets into the enemy's lines, directing the aim like the spray of water from a hose, I sat stupidly upright in my saddle, fully exposed to a hot fire from the Germans. It was sheer luck that carried me through unhurt until an officer, hurrying past, told me in a few short, crisp words what sort of a fool I was. Then I dropped down full length on the ground beside my machine until it was time to retire, watching my gunner a seasoned soldier -sitting there in his little seat, unprotected and unconcerned, working his machine without even taking his old clay pipe from his mouth.

The second time I took one of these machines into action - near Ypres things went much better. We went up in the dark, and some time before we were needed we were given our position - in a ditch, with our gun covering a road. Our orders were simply to fire when the Germans tried to rush that road. For several hours we waited

in the strain of uncertainty, but not a sign of 'Fritz,' although we could hear the other guns along the line in action. Suddenly they attacked. It was a terrible sight. They seemed to rise from the ground in thousands. My gunner had his machine working on them at the first sign, and the Germans, coming on in waves, seemed to melt away before our fire. I never saw men die so quickly before. They went down by hundreds, and still they came on, trampling over their own dead. Those Germans are extremely brave men: there is no other word for it. When their rush was checked and they had retired, we held our position for a while longer, returning to headquarters by evening. We had been in the firing-line for hours, and not once had our situation been dangerous.

My last experience with the Motor Machine-gun Section came during the fierce fighting around Hill 60, where records were made that still remain records after long months of war. For two days before the action came off we knew there was something in the wind, although no definite orders had been given. Our mining and tunneling companies had been working for some time; a general concentration of artillery was taking place in the neighborhood. Finally the attack took place. For thirtyfive minutes 92 batteries rained shells from their 368 cannon on the bit of rising ground known as Hill 60-a witha withering, scorching fire which stopped as suddenly as it began. Off went the mines we had laid under the hill; the earth shook; the air was filled with thick clouds of mingled dirt and smoke. Instantly our men were out of the trenches advancing at a dead run, while our machine-gunners poured steel into the German positions until the progress of our troops made this dangerous. It was all over in a few minutes, and, although we were called for once again,

tant documents or empty, for all the rider knows rider knows is strapped to his shoulder, and from that moment his one thought must be to deliver that case to its destination in the shortest order possible. If the rider comes to grief, he can commandeer the first man he meets; but the dispatches must be delivered at all costs.

As I said, I was not over-eager for this new work, but my feelings in the matter were not consulted. My first trip took me from the brigade headquarters to the divisional headquarters farther back. It was dark night when I started; the roads were all shelled to pieces, and as no lights could be carried I simply had to take chances on the shell-holes. I had not been gone three minutes when I felt the ground drop away beneath me and I went flying over the handle-bars. My knees and elbows were skinned, but the machine was uninjured, so off I started again. At first I tried to be careful; I soon realized, however, that I should be losing precious time. All I could do, then, was to shoot ahead in the blackness, trusting to luck. Two or three more tumbles came my way on that ride, and by the time I got down to headquarters I was stiff and sore beyond belief. I handed in my dispatch case; and then, after an hour off duty, I had to return over the same road.

It can easily be seen that the light British motor-cycles are infinitely superior to the heavy American machines for this rough-and-tumble work. If one

of these latter ever fell on the rider, the chances are that his leg would be broken and, in all probability, severely burned by the heated engine as he lay beneath it. The number of motorcycles put out of action at the front is astounding. During the second battle for Calais alone, a dispatch rider in our corps lost fourteen machines. He carried dispatches through the thick of this fighting, and was never so much as scratched: a remarkable record, for statistics show that during the first months of the war fifty per cent of the riders sent to France were killed.

Generally speaking, the branch of the motor-vehicle service most to my liking was driving a staff car, and luckily I had more of this work to do than anything else. A staff driver has a car to himself, and, as a rule, works entire ly with one officer. He has complete charge of the care of the car. Any one else caught driving it is punished for disobeying orders. When he takes control of his car, he signs a receipt for the car and the tools, lamps, tires, and accessories that go with it. For all these things he is personally responsible, and if anything happens to them through his carelessness he is obliged to make good the loss. The staff driver's life is no sinecure. He is liable for duty practically twenty-four hours each day, and carries a heavy burden of responsibility for the good condition of his car and the welfare of his officers. With all this, however, there goes a latitude of personal initiative and a continual possibility of new and interesting work that made a strong appeal to me.

It was while I was driving a staff car in Flanders last summer that I was ordered to take three officers to the little village of Kemmel, a short distance southwest of Ypres. This place was almost always under fire, and at one time had been in German hands-in the possession of the Crown Prince, as a

matter of fact. When they were occupying the place, we shelled it; when we drove them out and took the village, they began shelling, and have kept it up ever since. It was what is known as 'unhealthy ground.'

As we turned from the main highway into the road leading to Kemmel, I noticed two sentries at the crossing, but they merely saluted and allowed us to pass. I can only account for this failure of the sentries to warn us of what lay ahead by the fact that I was driving staff officers, who are allowed to pass unhindered anywhere.

The road to Kemmel leads up a long hill, the top of which must be reached before one comes in sight of the village itself, lying in a little valley between Mont Kemmel and Mont Noir, at the bottom of a long down-grade. As we took the hill going up, I had an uneasy feeling that all was not right, although nothing out of the way had been seen except those two sentries. We were going at a rapid clip, and as we shot over the brow of the hill we ran right past a post of German artillery observers. They were in a windmill, and I think they were as much surprised as we. I shall never forget my feeling of cold hopelessness as I realized what sort of a trap we had put our heads in.

-

Needless to say, I made that car fairly fly down the hill to the village, and we had hardly got there before shells began to drop around us. There was nothing to do but pop down into the cellar of a brewery one of the few buildings that were not completely wrecked. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when we got there, and for three hours we were in that cellar -shells pouring into the village all the time. It was a miserable, filthy hole, half full of rotten potatoes, the floor deep in slimy mud, and the ceiling so low that we could not stand upright anywhere. There was nothing to do