ake, she seems to have rolled
into Car No. 1 with Heaven's impetus behind her. Like the shell at
Alost, it is her luck.

And on the rest of us our futility and frustration weigh like lead. The
good Belgian food has become bitter in our mouths. When we took our
miserable walk through Ghent this morning we felt that _l'Ambulance
Anglaise_ must be a mark for public hatred and derision because of us. I
declare I hardly dare go into the shops with the Red Cross brassard on
my arm. I imagine sardonic raillery in the eyes of every Belgian that I
meet. We do not think the authorities will stand it much longer; they
will fire us out of the _Hopital Militaire_ No. II.

But no, the authorities do not fire us out. Impassive in wisdom and
foreknowledge, they smile benignly on our agitation. They compliment the
English Ambulance on the work it has done already. They convey the
impression that but for the English Ambulance the Belgian Army would be
in a bad way. Mademoiselle F. insists that the Hospital will soon be
overflowing with the wounded from Antwerp and that she can find work
even for me. It is untrue that there are three hundred nurses in the
Hospital. There are only three hundred nurses in all Belgium. They pile
it on so that we are more depressed than ever.

Janet McNeil is convinced that they think we are no good and that they
are just being angels to us because they are sorry for us.

I break it to them very gently that I've volunteered to serve at the
tables at the Palais des Fetes. I feel as if I had sneaked into a
remunerative job while my comrades are starving.

The Commandant is not quite as pleased as I thought he would be to hear
of my engagement at the Palais des Fetes. He says, "It is not your
work." I insist that my work is to do anything I can do; and that if I
cannot dress wounds I can at least hand round bread and pour out coffee
and wash up dishes. It is true that I am Secretary and Reporter and (for
the time being) Treasurer to the Ambulance, and that I carry its funds
in a leather purse belt round my body. Because I am the smallest and
weakest member of the Corps that is the most unlikely place for the
funds to be. It was imprudent, to say the least of it, for the Chaplain
in his khaki, to carry them, as he did, into the firing-line. The belt,
which fitted the Chaplain, hangs about half a yard below my waist and is
extremely uncomfortable, but that is neither here nor there. Keeping the
Corps' account