Now and again officers, and white-moustached colonels. A few noticed us, and gave various orders. Two general officers were specially noticeable in their subdued glint of armour. The one, white-bearded, slightly bent, but with a hawk's eye and a perfect seat and a great brown Irish hunter. The other like a Viking, with a white, drooping moustache. After inquiry of one of his staff, he rode up as he passed, with a dignified slight inclination. "You may pass on, sir: Englishman—and friend," he said.
A line of Belgian artillery; then the lighter horses and trappings of Lancers; finally cyclists and a detachment of the Red Cross and ambulance.
They all passed up the lanes, out on to the hills, with a sort of rustling, intent silence; for there are no drums or music in this war.
For many of these great bronzed men, with here and there a fierce negroid African, we were the last link with the life of towns and civilians. A few hours, perhaps a day or so, of the sight of the stir of troops, of the empty country and the sound of war, and they will be lying in the long nameless trenches in the fields, with the harrow already passing over them.
South of Namur also the French are advancing across the Meuse, pushing forward on the offensive. There may soon be a straight diagonal of the Allies from Maastricht to Belfort.
The Belgians are waiting quietly, and, now, more confidently.
Louvain and Waterloo