driven the same way, and we had to go quite slowly to avoid the crowd in the streets.  This time we crept along slowly, but for a very different reason.  We distrusted those empty houses.  We never knew what might be hiding round the next corner, but we did know that a false turning would take us straight into the German lines.  It was the only way by which we could reach our destination, but we were beyond the main Belgian lines, and our road was only held by a few isolated outposts.  After a mile or so we came upon a small outpost, and they told us that we should be safe as far as Rumps, about three miles farther, where their main outpost was placed.  An occasional shell sailed over our heads to reassure us, some from our own batteries, and some from the enemy’s.  We only hoped that neither side would fire short.

At Rumps we found the headquarters of the regiment, and several hundred troops.  At the sight of our khaki uniforms they at once raised a cheer, and we had quite an ovation as we passed down the street.  At the Etat Majeur the Colonel himself came out to see us, and his officers crowded round as he asked us anxiously about the British arrivals.  He pulled out his orders for the day, and told us the general disposition of the British and Belgian troops.  He told us that the road to Duffel was too dangerous, and that we must turn northwards to Contich, but that there might be some wounded in the Croix Rouge station there.  He and his men were typical of the Belgian Army—­ brave, simple men, defending their country as best they could, without fuss or show.  I hope they have come to no harm.  If only that army had been trained and equipped like ours, the Germans would have had a hard struggle to get through Belgium.

We turned away from the German lines northwards towards Contich.  Our road lay across the open country, between the farms which mean so much of Belgium’s wealth.  In one field a man was ploughing with three big horses.  He was too old to fight, but he could do this much for his country.  Surely that man deserves a place in his country’s Roll of Honour.  Shells were falling not four fields away, but he never even looked up.  It must take more nerve to plough a straight furrow when the shells are falling than to aim a gun.  I like to think of that man, and I hope that he will be left to reap his harvest in peace.  A little farther on we came upon the objective of the German shells—­a battery so skilfully concealed that it was only when we were close to it that we realized where it was.  The ammunition-carts were drawn up in a long line behind a hedge, while the guns themselves were buried in piles of brushwood.  They must have been invisible from the captive balloon which hung over the German lines in the distance.  They were not firing when we passed, and we were not sorry, as we had no desire to be there when the replies came.  An occasional shell gives a certain spice to the situation, but in quantity they are better avoided.