Summary

Portrait of John Buchan John Buchan The Watcher by the Threshold — The King of Ypres (1918)

Late the night before, the remnants of his battalion had been brought in from the Gheluvelt trenches to billets in Ypres. That last week he had gone clean off his sleep. He had not been dry for a fortnight, his puttees had rotted away, his greatcoat had disappeared in a mud-hole, and he had had no stomach for what food could be got. He had seen half his battalion die before his eyes, and day and night the shells had burst round him till the place looked like the ironworks at Motherwell on a foggy night.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of John Buchan John Buchan The Watcher by the Threshold — The King of Ypres (1918)

A woman was struggling with two men—a slim pale girl with dark hair. No sound came from her lips, but her eyes were bright with terror. Galbraith started to run, shouting sound British oaths. The men let the woman go, and turned to face him. One had a pistol, and for the second time that day a bullet just missed its mark. An instant later a clean bayonet thrust had ended the mortal career of the marksman, and the other had taken to his heels.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of John Buchan John Buchan The Watcher by the Threshold — The King of Ypres (1918)

His battalion had gone off and left him in a cellar, and miscreants were abroad. It was time for a respectable man to be up and doing. Besides, he wanted his breakfast. He fixed his bayonet, put the pistol in his pocket, and emerged into the November drizzle.
The streets suddenly were curiously still. The occasional shell-fire came to his ears as if through layers of cotton-wool.
Source: Wikisource

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