refugees gathered in crowds hoping to
get away by steamer. Like lost souls, carrying all the possessions
they could on their backs, these refugees. There was numbness in
their movements and their faces were blank--the paralysis of brain
from sudden disaster. The children did not cry, but mechanically
munched the dry bread given them by their parents.

The newspaper men said that "refugee stuff" was already stale;
eviction and misery were stale. Was Calais to be saved? That was
the only question. If the Germans came, one thought that madame at
the hotel would still be at her desk, unruffled, businesslike, and she
would still serve an excellent salad for dejeuner; the fishermen would
still go to sea for their daily catch.

What was going to happen? What might not happen? It was human
helplessness to the last degree for all behind the wrestlers. Fate was
in the battle-line. There could be no resisting that fate. If the Germans
came, they came. Belgian staff officers with their high-crowned, gilt-
braided caps went flying by in their cars. There always seemed a
great many Belgian staff officers back of the Belgian army in the
restaurants and cafes. Habit is strong, even in war. They did not often
miss their dejeuners. On the Dixmude line all that remained of the
active Belgian army was in a death struggle in the rain and mud. To
these "schipperkes" honour without stint, as to their gallant king.

Slightly-wounded Belgians and Belgian stragglers roamed the streets
of Calais. Some had a few belongings wrapped up in handkerchiefs.
Others had only the clothes they wore. Yet they were cheerful; this
was the amazing thing. They moved about, laughing and chatting in
groups. Perhaps this was the best way. Possibly relief at being out of
the hell at the front was the only emotion they could feel. But their
cheerfulness was none the less a dash of sunlight for Calais.

The French were grim. They were still polite; they went on with their
work. No unwounded French soldiers were to be seen, except the old
Territorials guarding the railroad and the highways. The military
organization of France, which knew what war meant and had
expected war, had drawn every man to his place and held him there
with the inexorable hand of military and racial discipline. Calais had
never considered caring for wounded, and the wounded poured in. I
saw a motor-car with a wounded man stop at a crowded corner, in
the midst of refugees and soldiers; a doct