o of
the traffic, and we were over.

We ran back to Ghent so fast that at Saint Nicolas (where we stopped to
pick up our poor little Belgian professor) we took the wrong turn at the
fork of the road and dashed with considerable _elan_ over the Dutch
frontier. We only realized it when a sentry in an unfamiliar uniform
raised his rifle and prepared to fire, not with the cheerful,
perfunctory vigilance of our Belgians, but in a determined,
business-like manner, and the word "Achille," imparted in a burst of
confidence, produced no sympathy whatever. On the contrary, this absurd
sentry (who had come out of a straw sentry-box that was like an enormous
beehive) went on pointing his rifle at us with most unnecessary
persistence. I was so interested in seeing what he would do next that I
missed the very pleasing behaviour of the little Belgian professor, who
sat next to me, wrapped in his brown shawl. He still imagined himself
to be on the road to Ghent, and when he saw that sentry continuing to
prepare to fire in spite of our password, he concluded that we and the
road to Ghent were in the hands of the Germans. So he instantly ducked
behind me for cover and collapsed on the floor of the ambulance in his
shawl.

Then somebody said "We're in Holland!" and there were shouts of laughter
from everybody in the car except the little Belgian. Then shouts of
laughter from the Dutch sentries and Customs officers, who enjoyed this
excellent joke as much as we did.

We were now out of our course by I don't know how many miles and short
of petrol. But one of the Customs officers gave us all we wanted.

It's heart-breaking the way these dear Belgians take the British. They
have waited so long for our army, believing that it would come, till
they could believe no more. In Ghent, in Antwerp, you wouldn't know that
Belgium had any allies; you never see the British flag, or the French
either, hanging from the windows. The black, yellow and red standard
flies everywhere alone. Now that we _have_ come, their belief in us is
almost unbearable. They really think we are going to save Antwerp.
Somewhere between Antwerp and Saint Nicolas the population of a whole
village turned out to meet us with cries of "_Les Anglais! Les
Anglaises!_" and laughed for joy. Terrible for us, who had heard
Belgians say reproachfully: "We thought that the British would come to
our help. But they never came!" They said it more in sorrow than in
anger; but you couldn