And I fancy they will get them, the heroes of Belgium. I think they will get their hundred thousand boots.
Then a whiff of the sea reaches us and the grey waves of the North Sea stretch out before us over the edge of the endless yellow sands, where bronze-faced Turcos are galloping their beautiful horses up and down.
We are in La Panne.
The journalist sits still in his corner of the car, not fussing, not questioning, leaving it all to me. This is my show. It is I who have come here to see the gracious Queen on the sands. All the part he plays in it is to bring me.
So the journalist, and the author and the others remain in the car. That is infinitely considerate, exquisitely so, indeed.
For no writer on earth would care to go looking around with the Jupiter of Journalists at her elbow!
Rush, rush, we are on our way back now. The cold wind of wet, flat Flanders strikes at us as we fly along. It hits us in the face and on the back. It flicks us by the ear and by the throat. The window behind us is open. The window to right and the window to left are open too. All the windows are open because, as I said before, they are all broken!
In fact, there are no windows! They've all been smashed out of existence. There are only holes.
"We were under shell-fire this morning," observes the journalist contentedly. Then truthfully he adds, "I don't like shrapnel!"