discovered, and then, by a ruse, they succeeded in driving straight through the Belgian lines and back to their own, Red Cross ambulance, khaki and all.  The problems, then, that have to be faced by an ambulance corps in the present war are fairly perplexing, and they demand a degree of resource and cool courage beyond the ordinary.  That these qualities are possessed by the members of the ambulance corps of which Dr. Hector Munro and Lady Dorothie Feilding are the leading members is merely a matter of history.  They have been in as many tight corners in the last few months as many an old and seasoned veteran, and they have invariably come out triumphant.

They started in Ghent under the Belgian Red Cross with a party of four surgeons, five women, and three men for the stretchers, and two chauffeurs to drive the two ambulances.  Now they have grown into an organization which takes on a great part of the ambulance work of the Belgian Army.  At Ghent they were attached to the big Red Cross hospital in the Flandria Palace Hotel, and at first it was dull, for most of the fighting was around Antwerp, and the wounded were taken there.  We were in Antwerp just then, and it was by no means dull.  We shared Alost and Termonde as a common hunting-ground, and we several times had a visit from Dr. Munro in the Boulevard Leopold.  In fact, we were discussing the possibility of arranging to work together when the crash came and Antwerp fell.

For the next few days the ambulance corps had enough work and ran enough risks to satisfy even the members of that notorious organization.  The Germans were coming on with great rapidity, and if there is one dangerous job, it is to pick up the wounded of a retreating army.  But here the interest for an English ambulance was doubled, for the British Army was covering the retreat of the Belgians and the French.  On Sunday, the 11th of October, they were asked to go out to Melle, four miles south-east of Ghent, to help with some French wounded, and, after spending some time there, they met the British Staff, and were asked to help them in their retreat through Zwynarde, a town on the Scheldt about four miles south of Ghent and the same distance from Melle.  It was a dangerous undertaking, as the intention was to blow up the bridge which crosses the Scheldt at Zwynarde and to fight a retreating battle covering the retirement of our allies.  The bridge was to be blown up at ten o’clock that evening, and though it was only four miles away, it was already dark and a mist was rising from the river.  The main roads were in the hands of the Germans, and there was nothing for it but to get across by a small side-road.  They started off in the mist, and promptly lost their way.  It is a pleasing situation to be lost in the dark somewhere very close to the enemy’s lines when you know that the only available bridge is just going to be blown up.  A thick mist had risen all around, and they were midway between two batteries—­British and German—­engaged in an artillery duel.  The crash of the guns and the scream of the shells overhead filled the darkness with terror.  But there was nothing for it but to go straight on, and though they must have gone right through the German lines and out again, they reached the bridge just ten minutes before it was blown into the air.