“Yes,” said Barry, answering his inflection. “Why not?”
“Well, sir, you know, it's rather a bad road. Warm bit of country up there, but—” He shrugged his shoulders in quite a French manner as if to say it was no business of his. “If you are going to Menin, you keep this road straight through past Wipers past the Cloth Hall, out by the Menin Gate. A hot place, that, sir. Then straight on, taking the right incline for about a mile and a half. You will see a big cemetery on your left. The Mill stands near a big school on your right. But why not drop into the dressing station, here, sir, right here in this old mill, which stands at the cross-roads? You may catch an ambulance going straight up to the Mill.”
“Thank you very much,” said Barry. “We'll do that very thing.”
“Good luck, sir,” said the sentry, saluting.
They found an ambulance about to start, and asked for a lift.
“All right, sir,” said the driver, “but you'd better step in and ask the officer.”
They passed into a large and high-vaulted stone building, which in peace days had been a mill. The old-fashioned, massive machinery was still standing intact. Obtaining permission from the officer, they took their places beside the driver of the ambulance, and were soon on their way.
It was already growing dark, but, although the surface of the stone pave was frequently broken with shell-holes, the ambulance, dodging round the holes, rushed without pause along at a high rate of speed.
“You don't use your lights?” asked Barry.
“No, not lately, sir,” said the driver. “That's the newest order,” he added in a tone of disgust.