None of us had ever quite got to the bottom of the trouble at the barrier. We know that the Belgian authorities wisely refused all responsibility. Properly speaking, our ambulances were not supposed to go nearer than a certain safe distance from the enemy's firing-line. For two reasons. First, it stood the chance of being shelled or taken prisoner. Second, there was a very natural fear that it might draw down the enemy's fire on the Belgians. Our huge, lumbering cars, with their brand-new khaki hoods and flaming red crosses on a white ground, were an admirable mark for German guns. But as the Corps in this case went into the firing-line on foot, I do not think that the risk was to the Belgians. So, though in theory we stopped outside the barriers, in practice we invariably got through.
The new car was stopped at the barrier now by the usual Belgian Army Medical Officer. We were not to go on to Melle.
I said that we had orders to go on to Melle; and I meant to go on to Melle. The Medical Officer said again that we were not to go, and I said again that we were going.
Then that Belgian Army Medical Officer began to tell us what I imagine is the usual barrier tale.
There were any amount of ambulances at Melle.
There were no wounded at Melle.
And in any case this ambulance wouldn't be allowed to go there. And then the usual battle of the barrier had place.
It was one against three. For M. C—— went over to the enemy, and the chauffeur Newlands, confronted by two official adversaries in uniform, became deafer and deafer to my voice in his right ear.
First, the noble and chivalrous Belgian Red Cross guide, with an appalling treachery, gave the order to turn the car round to Ghent. I gave the counter order. Newlands wavered for one heroic moment; then he turned the car round.
I jumped out and went up to the Army Medical Officer and delivered a frontal attack, discharging execrable French.