convoy of some sixty dear things seeing as much life as can be beheld
while groping into the insides of the Red Cross motor ambulance which
it is their job to feed, wash, coax and drive.

I have the _entrée_ here (except when the relentless Miss Commanding
Officer chases me out for breaking the two-and-a-half rules which
govern the place), and when I admitted incautiously that the only
place on the Front that I had not seen or been frightened at was
Passchendaele, they smiled pityingly and promised to take me there on
Sunday for a joy ride. Shades of 1917! What whirligigs of circumstance
time and the armistice have brought us! It was in the joy ride we
nearly upset a dynasty.

To accomplish the journey in greater comfort, Vee and her hut
companion Sadie got hold of a perfectly good Colonel man who had a
perfectly good car and had, moreover, a perfectly good excuse to go
to Passchendaele (he was really going to Boulogne), but wanted to get
a good flying start, and we set off. We were a perfectly organised
unit, consisting of four sections (including two No. 2 Brownie
Sections), A.S.C. complement (one lunch basket), Aid Post (bandage
and thermometer, carried as a matter of course by Sadie, who thinks
of these things), a Scotch dog (mascot) and a flask of similar
nationality (medical comforts for the troops).

On our arrival at Ypres the traffic man held up his hand. That
in itself would not have been important, for we have it on great
authority that the blind eye may be employed on really special
occasions, but the fellow stood determinedly in the middle of the
road, and even traffic men, we have always insisted, should not be run
over except on great provocation.