October 26th, Train militaire. We are passing through the lovely Norman country at a snail's pace in a military train bearing French soldiers to the front. Their distant "Marseillaise" sounds less hearty than our Tommies' "It's a long way to Tipperary," but then they already know the devastation War has wrought in their homes; they are the defenders of an invaded country.
The cost of our ticket to Abancour (military rate, for our uniform amongst the French receives the utmost consideration) is 1 franc 50 centimes. After Abancour, it appears, there are no trains to Boulogne, so how we are to get across the sixty intervening miles no man knows!
Abancour, 7.30 p.m. We reached the neat little model village of Abancour at dusk. It stands on a wind-swept plain, over which the lowering clouds are scurrying menacingly this evening. Just as at Havre market women offered us flowers "for the blessed Croix Rouge," so here the proprietor of the post-card shop insists on giving us pastilles de menthe to take on our journey.
Eu. This is the nearest point we can get to Boulogne, and having knocked up the sleepy hotel-keeper at 10 p.m. to obtain a night's lodging, having made bovril for us all out of the tablets some good friend had thrust into my travelling kit, and served out rations of horse-flesh sandwiches and nuts to make them savoury, I have at last tumbled into my damp bed, wrapped in a travelling rug.
A dismal rain has set in, which brings to mind the words of the secretary at the Rouen Consulate: "When winter sets in the fighting must temporarily cease. I know every inch of Belgium; know, too, that no attack can be made on country so sodden that every wheel sinks at least a yard into the ground. Believe me, what the Germans have they will hold—at least this winter. For Belgium will be impregnable!"
October 27th. We arose at 5 a.m. to catch a train bound towards Abbeville, and, after a refreshing draught of black coffee in glasses, found ourselves installed in the train, with the prospect of staying there till 5 p.m. If we had wondered at finding Eu well guarded on all sides, we no longer did so when we learned that only a few weeks back it was in enemy hands, and formed, in fact, the German headquarters on the march on Paris.
Shortly before reaching Abbeville a young Belgian soldier in the carriage next door put his head in to inquire politely whether we were some of the infirmières anglaises who had tended the Belgian wounded in Ostend.
It appeared he recognised Miss A——, as soon as she doffed her ugly felt uniform hat, as the nurse who had dressed his wounded back the day he was carried into the Casino hospital after the Battle of Termonde.
His career, which he sketched delightedly for our edification, perched on the arm of the window seat, had been eventful, to say the least of it.