slid into their cases.  The windows faced shellwards, and I must confess that once or twice when one of them seemed to be coming unpleasantly near I took the opportunity to remove my parcels outside.  How the patients were got ready and carried out and into the buses in that time is beyond my comprehension.  But somehow it was managed.  I took a last look round and drove out the last nurse who was trying to rescue some last “hospital comfort” for a patient, and in the end I was myself driven out by two indignant dressers who caught me trying to save the instrument sterilizer.  The buses were a wonderful sight.  Inside were some sixty patients, our share of the whole hundred and thirteen, and on top about thirty of our staff, and the strangest collection of equipment imaginable.  The largest steam sterilizer mounted guard in front, hoisted there by two sailormen of huge strength, who turned up from somewhere.  Great bundles of blankets, crockery, and instruments were wedged in everywhere, with the luggage of the staff.  At the door of each bus was seated a nurse, like a conductor, to give what little attention was possible to the patients.  It was a marvellous sight, but no cheerier crowd of medical students ever left the doors of a hospital for a Cup-tie.

XIV.  The Night Journey

There was only one way out—­by the bridge of boats across the Scheldt.  It was a narrow plank road, and as vehicles had to go across in single file at some distance apart, the pressure can be imagined.  For an hour and a half we stood in the densely packed Cathedral square watching the hands of the great clock go round and wondering when a shell would drop among us.  We had seen enough of churches to know what an irresistible attraction they have for German artillery, and we knew that, whatever may be the state of affairs in Scotland, here at any rate the nearer the church the nearer was heaven.  But no shells fell near, we only heard them whistling overhead.

The scene around us was extraordinary, and indeed these were the remains of the entire population of Antwerp.  The whole city had emptied itself either by this road or by the road northwards into Holland.  Crowds of people of every class—­the poor in their working-clothes, the well-to-do in their Sunday best—­all carrying in bundles all they could carry away of their property, and wedged in amongst them every kind of vehicle imaginable, from a luxurious limousine to coster’s carts and wheelbarrows.  In front of us lay the Scheldt, and pouring down towards it was on the left an endless stream of fugitives, crossing by the ferry-boats, and on the right an interminable train of artillery and troops, crossing by the only bridge.  At last there was a movement forwards; we crept down the slope and on to the bridge, and slowly moved over to the other side.  Perhaps we should not have felt quite so happy about it had we known that two men had just been caught on the point of blowing up the boats in the centre, and that very shortly after the Germans were to get the range and drop a shell on to the bridge.  At five o’clock we were across the bridge and on the road to Ghent.