"Who are you? Where do you come from?" said my companion, a French officer.
They stared uncomprehendingly.
He spoke again, this time in Flemish:
"Van waar komt gy? Waar gaat gy heen?"
The man pointed with his hand vaguely in the direction of the Menin ridge.
There followed a conversation of which I could make but little. But I noticed that they answered my companion in a dull, trance-like way, as though our questions concerned no one so little as themselves.
"They're fugitives," he repeated to me. "Been burnt out of their farm by the Bosches near the Menin ridge."
"Are they all alone?" I asked.
He put some further questions. "Yes, their only son was shot by the Germans when they billeted there."
"Why?"