huge tower which can be seen for many miles around.  It was intended that it should be 550 feet high—­the highest in the world—­and though it has reached little more than half that height, it is a very conspicuous landmark.  The Germans evidently found it a very tempting mark, for they began shelling it at an early stage.  When we were there the tower had not been damaged, but a large hole in the roof of the church showed where a shell had entered.  Inside everything was in chaos.  Every window was broken, and of the fine stained glass hardly a fragment was left.  A large portion of the roof was destroyed, and the floor was a confusion of chairs and debris.  The wonderful carved wooden pulpit, with its almost life-size figures, was damaged.  When the shell entered, the preacher’s notes from the previous Sunday lay on the desk, and they were perforated by a fragment.

The Croix Rouge was established in a large school on the south side of the town.  We drove into the large courtyard, and went in to see if there was anything for us to do.  The doctor in charge, a distinguished oculist, was an old friend and was very cordial, but he said there was no fighting near, and that no cases had come in.  We stood talking for a few minutes, and were just going, when one of our other cars came in with a man very badly wounded.  He was a cyclist scout, and had been shot while crossing a field a few miles away.  He had been picked up at considerable risk by our people:—­for the Germans rarely respected a Red Cross—­and brought in on the ambulance.  He was wounded in the abdomen, and his right arm was shattered.  He was in a desperate state, but the doctor begged me to do what I could for him, and, indeed, the power of recovery of these fellows was so remarkable that it was always worth a trial.  As rapidly as possible we got ready stimulants and hot saline solution to inject into his veins.  We had not come prepared for actual operating, and the local equipment was meagre, but we succeeded in improvising a transfusion apparatus out of various odds and ends.  It did not take long to get it to work, and in a few minutes he began to respond to the hot salt and water running into his vessels.  Alas it was only for a moment.  He was bleeding internally, and nothing could be done.  I went over to the priest, who had just come, and said:  “C’est a vous, monsieur.”  He bowed, and came forward holding in his hands the holy oil.  A few murmured words were spoken, the priest’s finger traced the sign of the Cross, a few moments of silence, and all was over.  Death is always impressive, but I shall never forget that scene.  The large schoolroom, with its improvised equipment, ourselves, a crowd of nurses and doctors standing round, in the centre the sandalled priest bending downwards in his brown mantle, and the dying man, his lips moving to frame the last words he would speak on earth.  It was in silence that we stole out into the sunlight of the courtyard.