We were rather a downhearted party when we set out northwards towards the Dutch frontier, for we had been told that the three buses we had sent on in advance had gone straight on to Lokeren, and had undoubtedly fallen into the hands of the Germans, who had made certain of holding the road by destroying the bridge.  We hoped that they might have discovered this in time, and turned back, but we could not wait to find out.  We knew that the enemy were quite close.  At first we used our lights, but a shrapnel whistling overhead warned us that we were seen, and for the remainder of the night we travelled in darkness.  These were minor roads, with a narrow paved causeway in the centre, and loose sand on each side.  Long avenues of trees kept us in inky darkness, and how the drivers succeeded in keeping on the causeway I really do not know.  Every now and then one of the buses would get into the sand; then all the men would collect, dig the wheels clear, and by sheer brute force drag the bus back to safety.  Twice it seemed absolutely hopeless.  The wheels were in the loose sand within a foot of a deep ditch, and the least thing would have sent the bus flying over on to its side into the field beyond; and on both occasions, while we looked at one another in despair, a team of huge Flemish horses appeared from nowhere in the darkness and dragged us clear.  Think of an inky night, the Germans close at hand, and every half-hour or so a desperate struggle to shoulder a heavily loaded London bus out of a ditch, and you may have some faint idea of the nightmare we passed through.

As we crept along the dark avenues, the sky behind us was lit by an ever-increasing glare.  Away to the south-east, at no great distance, a village was blazing, but behind us was a vast column of flame and smoke towering up to heaven.  It was in the direction of Antwerp, and at first we thought that the vandals had fired the town; but though the sky was lit by many blazing houses, that tall pillar came from the great oil-tanks, set on fire by the Belgians lest they should fall into German hands.  A more awful and terrifying spectacle it is hard to conceive.  The sky was lit up as if by the sunrise of the day of doom, and thirty miles away our road was lighted by the lurid glare.  Our way led through woods, and amongst the trees we could hear the crack and see the flash of rifle-fire.  More than once the whiz of a bullet urged us to hurry on.

At Selsaete, only a mile from the Dutch frontier, we turned southwards towards Ghent, and for an interminable distance we followed the bank of a large canal.  A few miles from Ghent we met Commander Samson, of the Flying Corps, and three of his armoured cars.  The blaze of their headlights quite blinded us after the darkness in which we had travelled, but the sight of the British uniforms and the machine guns was a great encouragement.  The road was so narrow that they had to turn their cars into a field to let us pass.  We had just come up with a number of farm