The Belgian soldiers were all slightly wounded, mostly in the legs and arms. The mud and slime of the trenches north of Furnes had not yet dried upon their sodden clothes. They were cold and benumbed and desperately hungry, for their train had been held up for hours while certain private and confidential military scene changing was going on. In spite of the pain their hurriedly dressed wounds were giving them they, too, were cheerful.
"We are in great heart," said one of them, "for we are moving on surely and certainly. This week something new has come to us. The knell of retreat no longer sounds in our hearts; the tocsin rings there instead. We are marching on; we are driving the barbarians back. Every inch of our motherland regained is sweet and precious to us. Three days ago I saw our King. He was as muddy and stained, Monsieur, as I am now. An officer who was with him wanted to remove the mud from his clothes. 'But no,' said the King, 'let it stay. If my own land clings thus to me, let it stay; it is better that it should be so,' and he laughed as he passed on. We all cheered him, and he laughed the more, showing a shining face and bidding us take heart, as a brighter day was dawning.
"So we went into the fight that evening, afraid of nothing. In rain and mist we charged a small village with a mighty shout. Though our numbers were small we charged. We were beaten back, and then we charged again. My bayonet broke off short in the breast of a huge German, and then in the dark and mist a great crowd swept over us as we both went down. I came to in the dawn. Our men were singing the chant of victory. The gray enemy had gone. The village, smoking and shattered, was ours. Our guns were rattling up the street to take another and stronger position.
"A small victory, perhaps, but none the less sweet for that. Alas! I could not follow, and they brought me on here. The fortunes of war were hard."
He raised himself painfully. The big Sergeant from the lost legion, coming along at the moment, picked him up like a baby, hoisted him on his shoulders, and bore him along through mud to the clearing house beyond the station yard.
"Lucky chap," said the Sergeant. "He is going to have a warm, snug Christmas in a snug, warm hospital; and here's me only lorst in this bloomin' swamp, an' got to report for duty somewhere in the mornin'—Lord knows where!" he grinned ruefully at me.
King George’s Visit to the Troops
[From The London Times, Dec. 8, 1914.]
An officer in the Indian Expeditionary Force sends the following description of an episode in the King's visit to the front: