As we sat over the camp fire of glowing coals in a perforated bucket such as night watchmen warm their hands by in the raw London mornings, a sudden squall arose, threatening to bring the tent down. One felt like part of an Arctic expedition at the overhead crash, the icy blast, and could not help surmising as to the thoughts of the Indians at the caprices of the European climate as their great, wistful eyes rested on the barren fields.
The tales of their pluck, recuperative powers, and apparent imperviousness to pain are astounding. The medical officers told us that it is almost impossible to keep them in bed. No sooner are they round from an anæsthetic than they are up and smoking, quite oblivious of an amputated limb!
December 12th, 2 a.m. A dark, starless morning, and we have just arrived back from Dunkirk. The road to Calais, when we left twelve hours ago, was fairly plain sailing.
There were the barriers to pass (some fifteen between Boulogne and Dunkirk) where the "laissez-passer," describing car, occupants, destination and object of visit, etc., has to be shown; and in between we scorched along at top speed, thankful for the fact that there is no speed limit in France, and getting frozen through and through despite our furs and rugs.
After Calais things grew more interesting. For the first time entrenchments, barbed-wire defences and guns hove in sight, whilst here and there the desolate stretches of country were relieved by figures against the skyline—old women working in the fields, or a solitary picket of soldiers.
We drew into Dunkirk about four o'clock; each of us had different business to transact; the four men on Red Cross work, I on a visit to Lady S——, in charge of a Belgian hospital.
Incidentally, there were the streets and houses to visit, destroyed only yesterday by German bombs. A miserable spectacle they were, the skeleton ruins in the pouring rain; no less miserable-looking than we, covered in the thick Flanders mud that defied all efforts to keep it out of the car.
It was almost dinner-time when we found ourselves at the C—— Hotel, and, whilst the men were sipping their vermouth, we noticed a man busily engaged in what seemed to be letter- but what proved to be leader-writing. He introduced himself as C——, the Daily Mail correspondent whose articles adorn the central pages of that paper.
Truly the path of the war correspondents of to-day lies along no bed of roses! Eyed with suspicion by the authorities, forced to change their abode daily, they lead the life of veritable refugees.