mixture
stockings and deer-stalker; its Chaplain in khaki, and its Surgeon a
mark for bullets in his Belgian officer's cap. I suggest that this
absence of uniform only proves our passionate eagerness to be off and
get to work. But it is right. Our ambulance is the real thing, and Mr.
L. is going to be an angel and help it all he can. He will write about
it in the _Illustrated London News_ and the _Westminster_. When he hears
that I came out here to write about the War and make a little money for
the Field Ambulance, and that I haven't seen anything of the War and
that my invasion of his hotel is simply a last despairing effort to at
least hear something, he is more angelic than ever. He causes a whole
cinema of war-scenes to pass before my eyes. When I ask if there is
anything left for me to "do," he evokes a long procession of
articles--pure, virgin copy on which no journalist has ever laid his
hands--and assures me that it is mine, that the things that have been
done are nothing to the things that are left to do. I tell him that I
have no business on his pitch, and that I am horribly afraid of getting
in the regular Correspondents' way and spoiling their game; as I am
likely to play it, there isn't any pitch. Of course, I suppose, there is
the "scoop," but that's another matter. It is the War Correspondent's
crown of cunning and of valour, and nobody can take from him that
crown. But in the psychology of the thing, every Correspondent is his
own pitch. He has told me very nearly all the things I want to know,
among them what the Belgian General said to the Commandant when he saw
Ursula Dearmer at Alost:

"What the devil is the lady doing there?"

I gather that Mr. L. shares the General's wonder and my own anxiety. I
am not far wrong in regarding Alost and Termonde as no fit place for
Ursula Dearmer or any other woman.

Answered the Commandant's letters for him. Wrote to Ezra Pound. Wrote
out the report for the last three days' ambulance work and sent it to
the British Red Cross; also a letter to Mr. Rogers about a light
scouting-car. The British Red Cross has written that it cannot spare any
more motor ambulances, but it may possibly send out a small car. (The
Commandant has cabled to Mr. Gould, of Gould Bros., Exeter, accepting
his offer of his own car and services.)

Went down to the "Flandria" for news of the Ambulance. The car that was
sent out yesterday evening got through all right to Antwerp and returned
s