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Updated: June 21, 2025
"I have got something to tell you," and the words were followed by a laugh. Whoever it was spoke in perfectly good English, although with a German accent. "I reckon it'll be lies," was Tom's reply. By this time another sentry, hearing Tom's voice, had rushed up to him. "What is it? Who goes there?" he called out. "Listen," whispered Tom, "it's one of the Bosches speaking to me.
All done by simple ledger-de-mang? Proceed!" "And loose off a belt or two. What say?" "Application forwarded, and strongly recommended," announced Ainslie. He examined the map. "Cross-roads eh? That means at least one estaminet. One estaminet, with Bosches inside, complete! Think of our little bullets all popping in through the open door, five hundred a minute!
"Yes, the Bosche is about here outside the village," said one. "We had a small strong point last night over there," pointing in the distance, "myself and two pals. We were sitting in the hole smoking when nine Bosches jumped in on us. Well, sir, they managed to send my pal West, but that's all. Then we started and six Fritzes are lying out there now. The other three escaped.
Quickly realising the possibilities in a film of such a body of men, I made enquiries of the speakers as to their whereabouts. "Ah, monsieur, they are on the sand-dunes near Nieuport. They are veritable fiends, monsieur, with the Bosches, who run away from them like cats. They are terrible fighters." After such a glowing account, I thought the sooner I interviewed these fighters the better.
A Gossaert portrait catches the eye, the head and bust of a man; then you find yourself staring in wonderment at the Peter Breughels and Jerome Bosches with their malodorous fantastic versions of temptations of innumerable St. Anthonys. The air is thick with monsters, fish-headed and splay of foot. St.
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