to me the worst. For those others I have been something, done something
that absolves me. But for these and for this place I have not done
anything, and now there is not anything to be done.

I go slowly downstairs. Each flight is a more abominable descent. At
each flight I stand still and pull myself together to face the next
nurse on the next landing. At the second story I go past without
looking. I know every stain on the floor of the corridor there as you
turn to the right. The number of the door and the names on the card
beside it have made a pattern on my brain.

* * * * *

It is quarter to three.

They are all ready now. The Commandant is there giving the final orders
and stowing away the nine wounded he has brought from Melle. The hall of
the Hospital is utterly deserted. So is the _Place_ outside it. And in
the stillness and desolation our going has an air of intolerable
secrecy, of furtive avoidance of fate. This Field Ambulance of ours
abhors retreat.

It is dark with the black darkness before dawn.

And the Belgian Red Cross guides have all gone. There is nobody to show
us the roads.

At the last minute we find a Belgian soldier who will take us as far as
Ecloo.

The Commandant has arranged to stay at Ecloo for a few hours. Some
friends there have offered him their house. The wounded are to be put up
at the Convent. Ecloo is about half-way between Ghent and Bruges.

We start. Tom's car goes first with the Belgian soldier in front. Ursula
Dearmer, Mrs. Lambert, Miss Ashley-Smith and Mr. Riley and I are inside.
The Commandant sits, silent, wrapped in meditation, on the step.

We are not going so very fast, not faster than the three cars behind us,
and the slowest of the three (the Fiat with the hard tyres, carrying the
baggage) sets the pace. We must keep within their sight or they may lose
their way. But though we are not really going fast, the speed seems
intolerable, especially the speed that swings us out of sight of the
"Flandria." You think that is the worst. But it isn't. The speed with
its steady acceleration grows more intolerable with every mile. Your
sense of safety grows intolerable.

You never knew that safety could hurt like this.

Somewhere on this road the Belgian Army has gone before us. We have got
to go with it. We have had our orders.

That thought consoles you, but not for long. You may call it following
the Belgian Army. But the Belgian Army