of "Avez-vous quelque-chose a declarer?
Tabac? Cigarettes?" For the first time in living memory, perhaps in
the history of the port, the Douane of Boulogne had abandoned its
office. What did it all mean? Why were the streets so deserted as
though the town had been stricken with the plague?

There was a look of plague in the faces of the few fishermen and
harbour folk who stood in groups at the street corners. There was a
haggard fear in their eyes and they talked in low voices, as though
discussing some doom that had come upon them. Even the houses
had a plaguy aspect, with shuttered windows and barred doors. The
town, which had resounded to the tramp of British regiments and to
the tune of "Tipperary," these streets through which had surged a tide
of fugitives, with wave after wave of struggling crowds, had become a
silent place, with only a few shadows creeping through the darkness
of that evening in war, and whispering a fear.

The truth came to me as a shock. The ports of France had been
abandoned. They lay open to the enemy, and if any Uhlans came
riding in, or a German officer in a motorcar with three soldiers to
represent an army, Calais and Boulogne would be surrendered
without a shot.

Looking back upon those days the thing seems inconceivable.
Months afterwards the enemy tried to fight its way to Calais and failed
after desperate attacks which cost the lives of thousands of German
soldiers and a stubborn defence which, more than once, was almost
pierced and broken. "The Fight for Calais" is a chapter of history
which for the Germans is written in blood. It is amazing to remember
that in the last days of August Calais was offered as a free gift, with
Boulogne and Dieppe to follow, if they cared to come for them.

Even Havre was to be abandoned as the British base. It was only a
little while since enormous stores had been dumped here for the
provisioning and equipment of our Expeditionary Force. Now I saw a
great packing up. "K." had issued an amazing order which made
certain young gentlemen of the A.S.C. whistle between their teeth
and say rather quietly: "Ye gods! things must be looking a bit blue up
there." The new base was to be much further south, at St. Nazaire, to
which the last tin of bully beef or Maconochie was to be consigned,
without delay. Yes, things were looking very "blue," just then.

3

One may afford now to write about mistakes, even the mistakes of
our French Allies, who have red