I suppose we stayed in that village quite three-quarters of an hour.
It was one straight street of small houses, and beyond the last house about a quarter of a mile of flat road, a quiet, grey road between tall, slender trees, then the turn. And behind the turn the Germans were expected to come in from Lokeren every minute.
And we had to find the houses and the wounded men.
The Commandant went into the first house and came out again very quickly.
The man in the room inside was dead.
We went on up the village.
Down that quiet road and through the village, swerving into the rough, sandy track that fringed the paved street, a battery of Belgian artillery came clattering in full retreat. The leader turned his horse violently into a side alley and plunged down it. I was close behind the battery when it turned; I could see the faces of the men. They had not that terrible look that Mr. Davidson told me he saw on the faces of Belgians in retreat from [?] Zele. There was no terror in them, only a sort of sullen annoyance and disgust.
I was walking beside the Commandant, and how I managed to get mixed up with this battery I don't know. First of all it held me up when it turned, then when I got through, it still came on and cut me off from the Commandant. (The rest of the Corps were with the Ambulance in the middle of the village.)
Then, through the plunging train, I caught sight of the innocent Commandant, all by himself, strolling serenely towards the open road, where beyond the bend the Germans were presumably pursuing the battery. It was terribly alarming to see the Commandant advancing to meet them, all alone, without a word of German to protect him.
There were gaps in the retreat, and I dashed through one of them (as you dash through the traffic in the Strand when you're in a hurry) and went after the Commandant with the brilliant idea of defending him with a volley of bad German hurled at the enemy's head.