A motor-bus in front of me emptied its contents in a twinkling; a taxi pulled up with a jar and the driver and fare dived into a second-hand bookshop.

It took me a moment or two to realize the meaning of it all, and I had scarcely done this when I got a very practical proof.

A hundred yards away a bomb fell on a street island, shivering every window-pane in a wide radius, and sending splinters of stone flying about my head.

I did what I had done a hundred times before at the Front, and dropped flat on my face.
The man who says he doesn't mind being bombed or shelled is either a liar or a maniac.

This London air raid seemed to me a singularly unpleasant business.